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
At first, I told myself it was fine. This is what families do, right? But slowly, the weight of it all began to wear me down. My Sundays stopped being days of joy. They became marathons of unpaid labor.Continue reading…
