“Your mother has passed, and crying won’t change that—so wipe your face, prepare dinner, and don’t look like a mourning child when my guests show up,” my husband told me only two hours after I returned

With that, he went into the bathroom, whistling, leaving me collapsed on the porch floor, crying uncontrollably again. With trembling hands, I began to pick up the ingredients one by one. I wanted to run away from that house, to go as far away as possible. But my mother’s last words echoed in my ears. She had always told me to be a devoted wife, to keep peace in the home. She always believed Mark was a good man, just going through a rough patch. To honor her memory, I forced myself to stand up. I took all the bags to the kitchen. This kitchen was my mother’s favorite place.

In that corner, she used to sit and clean scallions while telling me stories of her youth. Now the kitchen felt terribly silent and cold. I started working like a soulless robot. I washed the potatoes with cold water, a cold that chilled me to the bone. My thoughts flew to the moment I had washed my mother’s body that very morning. Her cold skin, her peaceful face. My tears fell into the water I was using to wash the vegetables. I wiped my face harshly with my sleeve. I tried to stop the tears, but it was useless. The more I tried to hold them back, the more forcefully they flowed.

I started chopping onions and peppers. The pungent smell of the spices irritated my eyes even more. But that stinging was nothing compared to the pain in my chest. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board was like a countdown to the hellish party that was about to begin. Once the kitchen was underway, I went to the living room. Mark wanted the space to look spacious and luxurious. While he was preening in front of the bedroom mirror, I had to move the heavy sofas alone. I swept the floor that was already clean, but Mark insisted there was still dust. I mopped the floor with a backache that was splitting me in two.

Every time my gaze fell on the photograph of my mother hanging on the living room wall, my heart broke a little more. Mark had ordered me to take it down, saying it ruined the festive atmosphere, but I refused with a defiant look. It was my only act of resistance. Finally, with a long grunt, he allowed me to leave it in its place. Time passed quickly and, cruelly, the smell of food began to fill the house. I was cooking a pot roast, garlic shrimp, and a large loaded baked potato casserole—dishes that would be served at a party or on a day of celebration, not at a banquet built on grief.

Cold sweat ran down my temples. My clothes were soaked with sweat and water from washing dishes. I carefully placed the ceramic plates on the long dining room table. Those plates had been a wedding gift from my mother. I remembered her wrinkled hands caressing them as she gave them to me. Now they would be used by people who didn’t care about her death. Mark came out of the room elegantly dressed and smelling of strong cologne. He looked confident and arrogant. He inspected my work like a ruthless foreman. He tasted a bit of the gravy from the pot roast and nodded without a single word of thanks.

Instead, he pointed out my disheveled appearance. He scolded me again, telling me to take a shower and change my clothes quickly. He didn’t want his friends to see his wife looking like a miserable servant. He emphasized that I should smile, be friendly, and attend to any request from the guests. He said he didn’t want to see a single complaint or a single tear when they arrived. I dragged myself to the bathroom. Under the shower stream, I cried bitterly. The sound of the water drowned my sobs of anguish. I scrubbed my body hard as if trying to wash away the traces of grief that had clung to me.

But the grief was not on my skin. It was in my blood and in my breath. After the shower, I put on a simple, sober dress. I wore no makeup, as no cosmetics could hide my swollen eyes. I looked at myself in the mirror: a pale face, lifeless eyes surrounded by dark circles. It was the face of a daughter who had lost her mother, a face forced to wear a mask of happiness for her husband’s pride. When I left the room, Mark was already by the front door. He commented sarcastically that my face still looked pathetic, but that there was no time to fix it further.