She looked at it with a mocking glance and began to eat while continuing to talk with Mark, ignoring my presence as I stood waiting for her next instructions. The incident happened in an instant. Just as I was about to turn around to go to the kitchen for some napkins, I suddenly heard the loud sound of a plate falling. Crash. The sound of ceramic shattering against the floor silenced the room for a moment. All eyes turned to the main sofa. I turned and saw the plate I had given Jessica smashed to pieces on the floor. The greasy gravy from the pot roast and the food stained my mother’s favorite rug.
Jessica jumped up with an expression of exaggerated surprise and looked at me accusatorially. She shouted in a high-pitched tone that I hadn’t placed the plate correctly and that it had slipped from her hands, but I was sure I had handed it to her properly. Mark reacted instantly. Instead of asking what had happened or worrying that someone might get cut by the ceramic shards, he scolded me in front of everyone. He berated me with harsh words, calling me careless and incapable of serving the guests properly. My face flushed, a mixture of shame and pain. The tears I had been barely holding back welled up again. I wanted to defend myself and say that Jessica had dropped it, but my courage vanished under Mark’s withering glare.
I knew that if I contradicted him, he would get even angrier and humiliate me further. On the other hand, Jessica adopted a victim’s expression. She shook her foot, splattered with a bit of gravy, and complained that her shoes were stained. Gathering what was left of my dignity, I knelt on the floor. I began to pick up the sharp pieces of ceramic with my bare hands. Some guests looked at me with pity, but no one dared to help me, fearing they would provoke Mark’s wrath. Jessica continued to complain about her shoes and ordered me to clean the stain on the rug quickly so it wouldn’t smell.
I brought a cloth and knelt at Jessica’s feet, scrubbing the pot roast stain while trying to contain my sobs so they wouldn’t be heard. I felt my dignity being mercilessly trampled upon. In my mother’s house, on the day of her death, I was being treated worse than a servant by my husband and his friend. After cleaning the floor, Mark ordered me to go to the kitchen and not come out until his anger had passed. With the pieces of the broken plate, which had been silent witnesses to my humiliation, I walked hesitantly to the kitchen.
In the kitchen, I leaned against the sink and turned the faucet on full blast to drown out the sound of my sobs, which finally broke free. I cried bitterly, calling out to my mother in my heart, “Mom, look at your daughter. It’s me, Sarah. Why did you leave so soon? I can’t take this, Mom.” The physical and mental exhaustion made me feel dizzy. But before I could calm down, Mark appeared at the kitchen door. He hadn’t come to apologize. He had come to order me to peel fruit because the guests wanted dessert. With hands trembling from crying, I wiped my tears harshly. I peeled the fruit.
