“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.

With that, he went into the bathroom, whistling, leaving me collapsed on the porch floor, crying uncontrollably again. With trembling hands, I began to pick up the ingredients one by one. I wanted to run away from that house, to go as far away as possible. But my mother’s last words echoed in my ears. She had always told me to be a devoted wife, to keep peace in the home. She always believed Mark was a good man, just going through a rough patch. To honor her memory, I forced myself to stand up. I took all the bags to the kitchen. This kitchen was my mother’s favorite place.

In that corner, she used to sit and clean scallions while telling me stories of her youth. Now the kitchen felt terribly silent and cold. I started working like a soulless robot. I washed the potatoes with cold water, a cold that chilled me to the bone. My thoughts flew to the moment I had washed my mother’s body that very morning. Her cold skin, her peaceful face. My tears fell into the water I was using to wash the vegetables. I wiped my face harshly with my sleeve. I tried to stop the tears, but it was useless. The more I tried to hold them back, the more forcefully they flowed.