He reminded me that today was the day of the party to celebrate his long-awaited promotion and he had already invited his entire team, including the department director, to a dinner at our home. Hearing his words, my eyes widened. I was speechless. I couldn’t believe my husband could be so cruel. How could he think about parties and celebrations when the earth covering my mother’s grave was still fresh? With a hoarse and broken voice, I refused his request. I begged him to cancel the event or at least move it to another location. I told him this house was in mourning, that I couldn’t bear the sound of laughter and loud music while my heart was weeping.
I appealed to his conscience, trying to remind him of my mother’s kindness during her life, how she had always supported him in difficult times, and how she always gave us part of her modest pension to help us out. But my words only served to unleash his anger. His face turned red. The pressure of his hand on my arm intensified to the point where I felt my bones might break. There on the porch of our house, he yelled at me in a voice so loud the neighbors could have heard. The words that came out of his mouth were like daggers digging into my open wound. He screamed that my mother was already dead, that there was no use in continuing to cry.
He said loudly a phrase I will never forget in my life. Crying wouldn’t bring her back. He ordered me to start serving his guests immediately to prepare the best meal and not to disappoint them with my funeral face. Mark pushed me and I stumbled backward nearly falling against the wall. He threw the grocery bags at me which contained raw meat, vegetables, spices, and several bottles of wine. Some of the contents spilled out, chicken, vegetables, seasonings, and several bottles of drinks. He gave me an ultimatum. In two hours he wanted every trace of morning to have disappeared from the house, the table to be filled with delicacies, and me to be presentable to receive the guests.
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.
