For three years straight, every Sunday at noon, the Peterson household became the hub of family tradition. Without fail, eight people arrived at the door—my husband’s parents, his siblings, their children—hungry, chatty, and expectant.
It was a ritual everyone counted on. The clatter of shoes at the door, the hum of voices filling the living room, and the sound of laughter echoing through the halls.
Because while everyone enjoyed their meals and their conversations, I was the one chopping, sautéing, plating, and cleaning. Every Sunday I played the role of hostess, cook, and dishwasher—and yet somehow, I felt invisible.
The Breaking Point
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