He stepped toward me, his voice dropping to an urgent hiss. “My entire family is going to be standing in this house in six hours.”
“Then it’s a shame you had three weeks to prepare and chose not to,” I said.
For the first time in our marriage, I saw genuine panic flicker in his eyes. He scrambled for his phone and began a desperate round of calls to local restaurants, but it was a holiday weekend in our town. Every reputable establishment was fully committed, and the quotes for last-minute catering were astronomical. He paced the kitchen, muttering under his breath and eventually pivoting to anger, accusing me of intentionally trying to embarrass him.
I looked him directly in the eye. “You chose to embarrass me first. I’m just letting you live with the results.”
The Empty Kitchen
By five o’clock that evening, the house was packed. Cars were parked all the way down the street. Ryan’s mother, Barbara, arrived with an elaborate cake, and his brothers showed up with several cases of beer. Everyone entered with wide smiles, sniffing the air and asking what was on the menu.
