“YOUR MOTHER IS DEAD, AND CRYING WON’T BRING HER BACK—SO WIPE YOUR FACE, GET DINNER ON THE TABLE, AND TRY NOT TO LOOK LIKE A WIDOWED CHILD WHEN MY GUESTS ARRIVE,” MY HUSBAND SAID JUST TWO HOURS AFTER I CAME HOME FROM OAK RIDGE CEMETERY, STILL SMELLING LIKE CHRYSANTHEMUMS, STILL HEARING THE DIRT HIT MY MOTHER’S COFFIN—AND SOMEHOW, THROUGH SHOCK, THROUGH TEARS, THROUGH THE SOUND OF HIS LAUGHTER ECHOING OVER THE PLATES SHE GAVE US AS A WEDDING GIFT, I COOKED FOR THE PARTY HE WOULDN’T CANCEL… UNTIL A BLACK CAR STOPPED OUT FRONT, HIS BOSS WALKED IN, TOOK ONE LOOK AT MY SWOLLEN EYES, AND SAID THE WORDS THAT MADE THE WHOLE ROOM GO COLD: “EVERYONE WHO’S ANYONE IN THIS TOWN KNOWS WHO YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW WAS—EVERYONE BUT YOU.”…

Your mother is dead. What good is crying going to do? Is it going to bring her back? Hurry up and get dinner ready. My friends will be here soon. Those were the first words my husband said to me. It had been exactly 2 hours since I had returned home from my mother’s funeral. My husband forced me to cook for his party on the very day she was buried. It all felt like a never-ending nightmare until a man showed up and told my husband, “Everyone who’s anyone in this town knows exactly who your mother-in-law was—everyone but you.” After that night, everything changed forever. The sound of the car engine cutting off echoed with an unnatural sharpness in the silence of the cold garage.

The afternoon sun beat down as if mocking the gray sky that blanketed my heart. It had only been 2 hours. I had just left Oakidge Cemetery, where the cold body of my mother, Mrs. Eleanor Vance, my only family, had become one with the damp reddish earth. The scent of chrysanthemums and the smell of wet soil seemed to linger in my nostrils, mixing with the salty taste of dried tears on my cheeks. I got out of the car with heavy steps as if I were wearing shackles on my ankles. All I wanted was to go to my room, lock the door, and hug the pillow she had left me so I could release the rest of the tears that constricted my chest.

But before my hand could touch the front doorknob, the impatient voice of my husband, Mark, shattered the silence. Mark was frowning, glancing at his expensive wristwatch. He didn’t look like a man who had just lost his mother-in-law. There was no trace of pain on his face. On the contrary, his eyes shone with a strange mix of excitement and restlessness. He rushed to open the trunk of the car and pulled out several large grocery bags that I didn’t know when he had bought. I stood motionless on the porch, staring blankly at the pots with my mother’s favorite orchids, which were beginning to wilt from not being watered since the morning.

Mark dropped the bags abruptly on the porch floor, and the crash made my head ache even more. He shot me a sharp look, as if urging me to move and wipe that expression of sadness from my face. I tried to ignore his cold attitude and go inside to rest. My body was exhausted. Not only was I physically drained from watching over my mother’s body since the previous night, but my soul was in pieces. However, my steps halted when Mark grabbed my arm forcefully. He forced me to turn and face him. His gaze was cold and demanding. He told me I couldn’t rest now. In 2 hours, important guests from his company would be arriving at our house.

He reminded me that today was the day of the party to celebrate his long-awaited promotion and he had already invited his entire team, including the department director, to a dinner at our home. Hearing his words, my eyes widened. I was speechless. I couldn’t believe my husband could be so cruel. How could he think about parties and celebrations when the earth covering my mother’s grave was still fresh? With a hoarse and broken voice, I refused his request. I begged him to cancel the event or at least move it to another location. I told him this house was in mourning, that I couldn’t bear the sound of laughter and loud music while my heart was weeping.

I appealed to his conscience, trying to remind him of my mother’s kindness during her life, how she had always supported him in difficult times, and how she always gave us part of her modest pension to help us out. But my words only served to unleash his anger. His face turned red. The pressure of his hand on my arm intensified to the point where I felt my bones might break. There on the porch of our house, he yelled at me in a voice so loud the neighbors could have heard. The words that came out of his mouth were like daggers digging into my open wound. He screamed that my mother was already dead, that there was no use in continuing to cry.

He said loudly a phrase I will never forget in my life. Crying wouldn’t bring her back. He ordered me to start serving his guests immediately to prepare the best meal and not to disappoint them with my funeral face. Mark pushed me and I stumbled backward nearly falling against the wall. He threw the grocery bags at me which contained raw meat, vegetables, spices, and several bottles of wine. Some of the contents spilled out, chicken, vegetables, seasonings, and several bottles of drinks. He gave me an ultimatum. In two hours he wanted every trace of morning to have disappeared from the house, the table to be filled with delicacies, and me to be presentable to receive the guests.

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.

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.

Every time my gaze fell on the photograph of my mother hanging on the living room wall, my heart broke a little more. Mark had ordered me to take it down, saying it ruined the festive atmosphere, but I refused with a defiant look. It was my only act of resistance. Finally, with a long grunt, he allowed me to leave it in its place. Time passed quickly and, cruelly, the smell of food began to fill the house. I was cooking a pot roast, garlic shrimp, and a large loaded baked potato casserole, dishes that would be served at a party or on a day of celebration, not at a banquet built on grief.

Cold sweat ran down my temples. My clothes were soaked with sweat and water from washing dishes. I carefully placed the ceramic plates on the long dining room table. Those plates had been a wedding gift from my mother. I remembered her wrinkled hands caressing them as she gave them to me. Now they would be used by people who didn’t care about her death. Mark came out of the room elegantly dressed and smelling of strong cologne. He looked confident and arrogant. He inspected my work like a ruthless foreman. He tasted a bit of the gravy from the pot roast and nodded without a single word of thanks.

Instead, he pointed out my disheveled appearance. He scolded me again, telling me to take a shower and change my clothes quickly. He didn’t want his friends to see his wife looking like a miserable servant. He emphasized that I should smile, be friendly, and attend to any request from the guests. He said he didn’t want to see a single complaint or a single tear when they arrived. I dragged myself to the bathroom. Under the shower stream, I cried bitterly. The sound of the water drowned my sobs of anguish. I scrubbed my body hard as if trying to wash away the traces of grief that had clung to me.

But the grief was not on my skin. It was in my blood and in my breath. After the shower, I put on a simple, sober dress. I wore no makeup as no cosmetics could hide my swollen eyes. I looked at myself in the mirror, a pale face, lifeless eyes surrounded by dark circles. It was the face of a daughter who had lost her mother, a face forced to wear a mask of happiness for her husband’s pride. When I left the room, Mark was already by the front door. He commented sarcastically that my face still looked pathetic, but that there was no time to fix it further.

Just then, the doorbell rang. My heart skipped a beat, not with joy, but with anxiety. The first guest had arrived. The hellish party was about to begin. Mark’s expression changed instantly. A fake radiant smile spread across his lips. He opened the door enthusiastically, greeting the guest with a loud laugh. I stood behind him with my head bowed, taking a deep breath of the air that felt oppressive, and prepared to play the role of a servant in my own home on the day of my mother’s death. As soon as the door swung wide open, the tranquility of our home vanished. Mark’s co-workers burst in loudly, bringing with them a mix of different perfumes and deafening laughter.

They entered without asking. Their shoes echoed on the floor I had cleaned with so much effort. No one offered me their condolences. Perhaps Mark hadn’t told them. Or perhaps for them, the death of an old woman wasn’t important enough to ruin a party atmosphere. They immediately scattered throughout the living and dining rooms, admiring the furniture and praising Mark’s success on his recent promotion. I stood in a corner, holding a tray with glasses of cold iced tea that I had prepared beforehand. Mark introduced me quickly, not as his grieving wife, but as the hostess, ready to serve. Some of them nodded politely, but their gazes were empty.

They looked at me briefly before returning to their lively conversations with Mark. Mark seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the moment. He was the center of attention, telling unfunny jokes that were met with exaggerated laughter from his subordinates. Each burst of laughter was like a needle piercing my heart. Their laughter sounded like a grotesque dissonance with my desolate mood. It was like a masquerade ball in the middle of a cemetery. My first duty began. Mark gestured with his eyes for me to serve the drinks quickly. I walked slowly, offering the tray to each guest. My hands trembled from the weight of the tray and from the emotion I was trying to suppress.

One of Mark’s friends, one burly man, took a glass without even looking at me, too busy talking about a new project they were about to launch. The glasses passed quickly from hand to hand. I had to go back and forth to the kitchen to refill the pitcher and bring out appetizers. My legs, already tired from standing for hours at the funeral home, ached even more, but I dared not sit down. Mark was always watching me from the corner of his eye, making sure I didn’t rest for a second. The atmosphere grew even louder when the second group arrived. Among them was a woman who stood out particularly.

Her name was Jessica. She was a colleague Mark often mentioned at home for her achievements, but I could sense something more in the way Mark looked at her. Jessica entered with a very confident air, as if she owned the place. She greeted Mark with familiarity, even touching his arm in a way that was too close while smiling cheerfully. Mark seemed delighted by Jessica’s arrival. His face lit up in a way I hadn’t seen when he looked at me. Jessica examined me from head to toe with a look of dismissive evaluation. There was no kind smile on her lips when she looked at me, only a faint, cunning smirk.

Mark immediately led Jessica and some of his closest friends to the most comfortable spot, the main sofa. He called out my name loudly and ordered me to bring a plate of food for Jessica. He said Jessica was a special guest and should be well taken care of. I swallowed, holding back the bitterness rising in my chest. I brought a plate and filled it with the food I had prepared earlier through tears. The pot roast, the garlic shrimp, and a piece of the loaded baked potato casserole were carefully arranged on the plate. I brought it to Jessica and offered it to her respectfully. Jessica accepted it without a single word of thanks.

She looked at it with a mocking glance and began to eat while continuing to talk with Mark, ignoring my presence as I stood waiting for her next instructions. The incident happened in an instant. Just as I was about to turn around to go to the kitchen for some napkins, I suddenly heard the loud sound of a plate falling. Crash. The sound of ceramic shattering against the floor silenced the room for a moment. All eyes turned to the main sofa. I turned and saw the plate I had given Jessica smashed to pieces on the floor. The greasy gravy from the pot roast and the food stained my mother’s favorite rug.

Jessica jumped up with an expression of exaggerated surprise and looked at me accusatorially. She shouted in a high-pitched tone that I hadn’t placed the plate correctly and that it had slipped from her hands, but I was sure I had handed it to her properly. Mark reacted instantly. Instead of asking what had happened or worrying that someone might get cut by the ceramic shards, he scolded me in front of everyone. He berated me with harsh words, calling me careless and incapable of serving the guests properly. My face flushed, a mixture of shame and pain. The tears I had been barely holding back welled up again. I wanted to defend myself and say that Jessica had dropped it, but my courage vanished under Mark’s withering glare.

I knew that if I contradicted him, he would get even angrier and humiliate me further. On the other hand, Jessica adopted a victim’s expression. She shook her foot, splattered with a bit of gravy, and complained that her shoes were stained. Gathering what was left of my dignity, I knelt on the floor. I began to pick up the sharp pieces of ceramic with my bare hands. Some guests looked at me with pity, but no one dared to help me, fearing they would provoke Mark’s wrath. Jessica continued to complain about her shoes and ordered me to clean the stain on the rug quickly so it wouldn’t smell.

I brought a cloth and knelt at Jessica’s feet, scrubbing the pot roast stain while trying to contain my sobs so they wouldn’t be heard. I felt my dignity being mercilessly trampled upon. In my mother’s house, on the day of her death, I was being treated worse than a servant by my husband and his friend. After cleaning the floor, Mark ordered me to go to the kitchen and not come out until his anger had passed. With the pieces of the broken plate, which had been silent witnesses to my humiliation, I walked hesitantly to the kitchen.