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.
Just then, the doorbell rang. My heart skipped a beat, not with joy, but with anxiety. The first guest had arrived. The hellish party was about to begin. Mark’s expression changed instantly. A fake radiant smile spread across his lips. He opened the door enthusiastically, greeting the guest with a loud laugh. I stood behind him with my head bowed, taking a deep breath of the air that felt oppressive, and prepared to play the role of a servant in my own home on the day of my mother’s death. As soon as the door swung wide open, the tranquility of our home vanished. Mark’s co-workers burst in loudly, bringing with them a mix of different perfumes and deafening laughter.
