“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 started chopping onions and peppers. The pungent smell of the spices irritated my eyes even more. But that stinging was nothing compared to the pain in my chest. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board was like a countdown to the hellish party that was about to begin. Once the kitchen was underway, I went to the living room. Mark wanted the space to look spacious and luxurious. While he was preening in front of the bedroom mirror, I had to move the heavy sofas alone. I swept the floor that was already clean, but Mark insisted there was still dust. I mopped the floor with a backache that was splitting me in two.