The next Sunday, I smiled wide and served their favorite stew. But I only made one pot. I wore no apron. I didn’t set extra sides. And when the bowls were passed around, I didn’t take one for myself.
When my mother-in-law asked why I wasn’t eating, I answered sweetly:
At first, they chuckled. But as the pot emptied and they realized I hadn’t had a bite, the smiles faded. My husband looked embarrassed.
“You didn’t eat?” he asked quietly.
“You all come first, right?” I shrugged.
That night, after the house grew silent, he hissed, “You made things awkward.”
I stood tall for the first time in years. “I’ve been invisible for three years. No one asked how I was. No one brought dessert. No one lifted a finger. I’m not a servant. I’m your wife. A host—not hired help.”
Strike Two
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