For three years, every Sunday at noon, our house became the family’s gathering spot. My husband’s parents, siblings, and their children streamed in—hungry, loud, expectant. I chopped, sautéed, plated, and cleaned while laughter echoed in the living room. I was the hostess, the cook, the dishwasher—and somehow, invisible.
One evening, worn thin, I told my husband I was done. His response hit me like a slap:
“They got us the house. Is this your thank you?”
As if my exhaustion, my time, and my labor were a debt I owed for a gift I never asked for.
The next Sunday, I served only one pot of their favorite stew—no apron, no second dish, no plate for me. When his mother asked why I wasn’t eating, I smiled sweetly:
“Oh, this is all for you. After all these years, you deserve the full portion.”
They laughed—until the stew ran out. My husband looked embarrassed.
“You didn’t eat?” he asked.
“You all come first, right?” I shrugged.
That night, I told him, “I’m not a servant. I’m your wife. I’m their host—not their hired help.”
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