In the kitchen, I leaned against the sink and turned the faucet on full blast to drown out the sound of my sobs, which finally broke free. I cried bitterly, calling out to my mother in my heart, “Mom, look at your daughter. It’s me, Sarah. Why did you leave so soon? I can’t take this, Mom.” The physical and mental exhaustion made me feel dizzy. But before I could calm down, Mark appeared at the kitchen door. He hadn’t come to apologize. He had come to order me to peel fruit because the guests wanted dessert. With hands trembling from crying, I wiped my tears harshly. I peeled the fruit.

Mark returned to the living room and shortly after the laughter resumed. The music was turned up. They seemed to have forgotten the earlier incident or simply didn’t care. They ate, drank, and joked over my pain. The clock struck 4:00 p.m. The sky outside was beginning to darken. With the faint hope of getting a shred of compassion from my husband, I brought the fruit tray to the living room and placed it on the table with my head bowed, trying to avoid Jessica’s triumphant gaze.

Suddenly, amidst the clamor of that suffocating party, the soft purr of a car engine was heard stopping right in front of the house’s fence. It wasn’t the sound of just any car, but the hum of a luxury vehicle’s engine. Several guests sitting near the window looked outside and instantly fell silent. They whispered with tense faces. Mark, who was holding a glass of iced tea and laughing loudly, also stopped abruptly when he saw who was getting out of that car. A sleek black sedan, the kind of car only owned by top executives of major corporations. A uniform chauffeur got out and politely opened the back door.

The festive atmosphere that had been chaotic just a moment ago was suddenly silenced as if someone had hit the mute button. One of Mark’s friends, bewildered, turned off the music. Everyone stood up with a clumsy and respectful attitude. Through the open front door walked a middle-aged man dressed in an impeccable suit, with an unmistakable aura of leadership. It was Mr. Harrison, the owner of the company where Mark worked, the highly respected president. Mark turned pale. He absolutely did not expect his top boss to come to his humble home. Besides, he hadn’t invited him because he didn’t consider himself at that level. Mr. Harrison entered with an impassive expression.

His eyes scanned the entire messy room filled with the remnants of the party. Then his gaze stopped precisely on my eyes, swollen and red. The silence that fell over the living room contrasted dramatically with the noise of the party just a few seconds before and it became suffocating. Mr. Harrison stopped at the threshold, emanating an aura of authority that would intimidate anyone. He wore a very expensive looking dark gray suit that contrasted with the casual shirts of Mark’s friends. His hair, beginning to gray, was neatly combed back, and his penetrating gaze swept the room as if conducting a surprise inspection of a troubled branch office.

There was no smile on his face, only a firm jaw and an unreadable expression. Mark’s body, which just a moment ago had stood tall with an arrogant chin, now seemed to shrink. His face, previously flushed with anger towards me or laughter with his friends, had turned pale as paper. Cold sweat began to bead on his forehead, and his hand, holding a glass, trembled so violently that he spilled some of its contents. Mark hurriedly placed the glass on a nearby table with a movement so clumsy he almost knocked it over. He nervously adjusted the collar of his shirt, trying to gather the fragments of his shattered confidence.

With hasty and somewhat faltering steps, Mark approached Mr. Harrison. He gave a slight nod, an exaggerated and fawning gesture of respect. His voice cracked as he addressed his supreme boss. Mark expressed how surprised and honored he was that Mr. Harrison would visit his humble abode. He apologized for not sending a formal invitation, explaining that it was a small celebration with his department team and that he hadn’t dared to bother Mr. Harrison with his valuable time. Mark continued to talk, tripping over his words. Honeyed words poured out of his mouth incessantly, as if trying to hide the panic that had seized him. He invited Mr. Harrison to come in.

Offering him the most comfortable seat on the sofa, the same one Jessica had occupied earlier. But Mr. Harrison did not immediately respond to Mark’s warm welcome. He only nodded very slowly without taking his scrutinizing gaze off him. Mr. Harrison entered slowly. His gleaming shoes made a rhythmic sound on the tiled floor. The other guests, Mark’s colleagues, automatically moved aside to let him pass. They stood rigid as statues, afraid of making the slightest mistake in front of the owner of the company, who held their destinies in his hands. Jessica, who had been sitting like a queen on the main sofa, quickly stood up, fixed her hair and clothes, and put on her sweetest smile, hoping to attract the president’s attention.

Jessica even tugged slightly at Mark’s arm, signaling him to introduce her to Mr. Harrison. But Mr. Harrison seemed not to see them. His gaze focused instead on the tacky party decorations, the dirty dishes scattered about, and the food scraps that had not yet been cleaned up. Mark felt even more bewildered by Mr. Harrison’s cold reaction. He tried to break the ice by offering him drinks and food. He shouted my name, but this time not with the harsh voice from before, but in a softly feigned tone, yet laden with pressure. He asked me to quickly bring a hot drink for Mr. Harrison. Perhaps the best tea or coffee we had.

I, who had been standing like a statue in a corner near the kitchen door, was startled. My heart was pounding. I felt very ashamed. My appearance was not at all appropriate to receive a guest like Mr. Harrison. My clothes were damp from washing dishes. My eyes were very swollen. And my face was pale and without makeup. I wanted to hide, to run to a back room and not come out until everyone had left. But in this house, Mark’s orders were law, especially in front of his boss. With heavy steps, I went to the kitchen to prepare the tea. My hands trembled as I took out the best porcelain cup we had left in the cabinet.

My mind was in chaos. Why was Mr. Harrison here? Mark said he hadn’t invited him. Was it a coincidence, or was there some urgent matter? As I poured the hot water, I could hear Mark’s voice in the living room, still trying to explain the party. Mark lied. He said the party had been organized at the request of his friends, who wanted to celebrate his success, and that he had felt bad refusing. He tried to create an image of a loyal team leader, beloved by his subordinates. I smiled bitterly upon hearing his lies. My tears fell again into the teacup. I wiped them away hastily. I must not cry in front of the distinguished guest.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the turmoil in my chest, and returned to the living room with a tray containing the cup of hot tea. When I returned to the living room, the atmosphere was still silent and tense. Mr. Harrison had not sat down. He was still standing in the middle of the room, rejecting Mark’s offer to sit on the sofa. Mark looked even more uneasy. Sweat was already soaking the collar of his shirt. Jessica stood next to Mark, trying to maintain a friendly smile, but her smile seemed forced as she was ignored. As I approached with the tray in my hands, Mr.

Harrison suddenly turned towards me. His movement was abrupt and focused. His gaze, which was cold when he looked at Mark, transformed into something difficult to interpret when it fell on my face. There was surprise, scrutiny, and also a flash of deep compassion. My steps stopped instantly, paralyzed by the intensity of that middle-aged man’s gaze. The distance between us was only a few feet. Realizing that Mr. Harrison was looking at me, Mark hastily stepped in between us. He blocked Mr. Harrison’s line of sight as if ashamed to acknowledge my presence. With a dismissive tone, he said that I was just his wife helping with the guests and apologized if my appearance offended Mr.

Harrison’s sight. Mark even added the foolish excuse that I wasn’t feeling well, which was why my face was pale and lifeless. He tried to divert Mr. Harrison’s attention back to him, talking about the sales targets for the next month that he had already surpassed, but Mark’s efforts were in vain. Mr. Harrison did not listen at all to Mark’s ramblings about sales figures or marketing strategies. Mr. Harrison raised his hand slightly, a firm signal for Mark to be quiet. Mark’s mouth closed instantly. His sentence was cut off mid-thought. The room fell silent again. It even seemed like people were holding their breath. Mr. Harrison moved past a petrified Mark and walked directly towards me.

I felt my heart stop. I dared not look him in the eye and lowered my head, afraid of making some mistake that could anger Mark even more or even get him fired. My hands, holding the tray, trembled more forcefully, causing the teacup on it to clink slightly. Mr. Harrison stopped right in front of me. An elegant and expensive cologne emanated from his body, masking the smell of food that permeated my clothes. Unexpectedly, Mr. Harrison extended his hand, not for the teacup, but to steady the tray that was about to fall from my trembling hands. His touch was firm and warm, conveying a strange sense of security.

He took the tray from me and placed it himself on a nearby table, an action that stunned everyone in the room. The president of a major corporation serving the host. Mark almost choked seeing the scene. Jessica watched with her mouth slightly open. Mr. Harrison looked at me again, not caring about the confused glances of the guests. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep and resonant as he asked a single sentence question that pierced straight through the heart of my emotional defenses. “Why are you crying, ma’am?” he asked gently, but with authority. That question, filled with a genuine fatherly concern, broke down the wall that had been cracking since morning.

Mr. Harrison’s question hung in the air, heavy and demanding. Why are you crying? The sentence echoed in my ears, stirring the emotions I had desperately suppressed to save my husband’s face. I bit my lower lip hard to hold back a sob that threatened to erupt. My eyes burned. Tears welled up, blurring my vision. How should I answer? If I told the truth, Mark would be furious. If I lied, my heart would break even more. I glanced sideways at Mark. My husband was glaring at me, a clear threat that said, “Don’t say anything stupid.” His face was tense, his jaw clenched. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, a signal for me to stay quiet or find another excuse.

Seeing that I remained silent with my head down, Mark, impatient, intervened. He let out a chuckle, a clumsy and forced sound. He approached Mr. Harrison, trying to pat his boss on the shoulder, but restrained himself at the last moment. With a condescending tone, Mark said, “Ah, please excuse my wife, sir. She’s like that, a bit of a crybaby, and overly sensitive. You know how women are. Maybe she’s emotional about your visit or just tired from cooking all day. It’s nothing, Mr. Harrison. Don’t worry.” Mark tried to minimize my feelings to turn my pain into a joke or a common female weakness. He wanted to hide at all costs that he was celebrating a party on top of his wife’s grief.

But Mr. Harrison was not so easily fooled. He didn’t laugh. On the contrary, his face grew even more serious. He turned slowly to face Mark. His gaze was as sharp as a hawk stalking its prey. “Mr. Evans,” Mr. Harrison said in a low voice that nonetheless rumbled in the silence of the room. I didn’t ask you. I am asking your wife. The sentence was short, concise, and lethal. Mark fell silent instantly, his face flushed with shame at being reprimanded in front of his subordinates. Jessica, who was near Mark, also lowered her head, not daring to look up, pretending to adjust her watch. The situation had been reversed.

Now it was Mark who seemed small and helpless. Mr. Harrison turned back to me. His expression softened, creating a safe space for me to speak. Answer me, ma’am. Don’t be afraid. Tell me the truth. Mr. Harrison’s words seemed to give me a new strength. A strength I didn’t know where it came from. Perhaps from the spirit of my mother, who would not tolerate her daughter being treated unfairly.

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.

I’m crying because my heart is broken, sir. I paused to catch my breath. My chest was tight. Everyone was looking at me. The guests who were eating merrily before had now put down their plates. The atmosphere was so quiet you could hear the ticking of the clock. 2 hours ago, just 2 hours, I returned from my mother’s funeral. My own mother passed away yesterday afternoon and she was buried just this afternoon. That confession was like a time bomb that exploded. Instantly, gasps of surprise were heard from several guests. They looked at each other with horrified faces. Some covered their mouths as they realized the cruelty of the situation they were celebrating.

They had been eating and laughing in a house of mourning on the day of the funeral. Guilt began to appear on the faces of Mark’s colleagues. They felt deceived as Mark had not informed them of my mother’s death. Jessica seemed the most uneasy. She slowly backed away trying to get out of the spotlight. Her face was pale. Realizing the social impact of the event, I continued my story without paying attention to their reactions. While I still had the courage, my husband Mark forced me to go ahead with this party. He said my mother’s death was not important, that life must go on, and that his promotion was more valuable than my period of mourning.

He ordered me to dry my tears, cook all this food, and serve his friends with a smile, as if nothing had happened. The dirt on my mother’s grave is still fresh, sir. The chrysanthemums on her grave haven’t even begun to wilt. But here, in this house, the music is blasting, and I am forbidden to be sad. My tears started to flow again, but this time I let them run while holding my head high. I had verbalized the truth that had been suppressed by my husband’s pride. Mark looked as if he had been struck by lightning. He opened his mouth to deny it, but no sound came out.

He realized he was finished. All eyes were now on him, filled with disgust and disbelief. The same colleagues who had praised him earlier now looked at him like a monster. How could a man be so cruel to his wife? How could he celebrate a party right after burying his mother-in-law? The reputation Mark had built over the years crumbled in an instant. Mr. Harrison listened to my entire story without blinking. His face slowly changed from an impassive and authoritative expression. It now emanated extreme anger. His jaw tensed so much that the veins in his neck stood out. His right hand clenched into a tight fist at his side.