“Your mother is gone. Tears won’t bring her back—so wipe your face, make dinner, and don’t look like a grieving child when my guests arrive.” That was what my husband said.

I slowly raised my head. I saw Mark’s face filled with fear and anger. But this time, the fear I felt for him was not greater than the pain in my heart. I remembered the peaceful face of my mother in her grave that very afternoon. I remembered how much she wanted my happiness, and now in the house she had left me, I was being treated like a slave. It was enough. I could no longer hide this rot. With a trembling, but increasingly firm voice, I began to speak. Excuse me, sir, if my appearance has made you uncomfortable, I began, my voice. I’m not crying because I’m a crybaby or out of emotion.