Not long after, his mother invited me for coffee. I braced myself for criticism, but instead, she surprised me.
She took my hand. “When I was your age, I did the same thing. Every Sunday, every holiday, I cooked until my feet hurt. No one thanked me either. I saw myself in you, and I should’ve spoken up.”
The following weekend, she brought the main dish. His sister prepared the sides. I made lemonade and, for the first time, sat down as a guest at my own table.
My husband poured drinks. Later, he did all the dishes—without being asked.
“I get it now,” he whispered. “I took you for granted.”
I didn’t lecture. I simply hugged him.
Reclaiming Home
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