Every Sunday used to wring the life out of me. It wasn’t just the cooking. It wasn’t just the cleaning. It was the expectation — the automatic assumption that I would carry the entire load simply because I always had. Week after week, I woke up early, scrubbed the house spotless, chopped vegetables until my hands ached, stirred pots big enough to feed a wedding party, and then forced a smile when the twelve o’clock parade arrived at my front door. My husband’s family — eight adults with healthy appetites and heavier expectations — would sweep in as if my home were their personal weekend restaurant.
I’d greet them with hugs, but inside I was bone-tired. My legs throbbed from standing. My back begged for rest. My mind screamed for one quiet weekend. But nobody noticed. Nobody asked if I needed help. They simply walked in, sat down, and waited to be served — as though the food magically appeared, as though my exhaustion were an invisible element of the décor.
One evening, after yet another Sunday that left me feeling wrung dry, I finally told my husband I couldn’t do it anymore. Not like this. Not alone. I said it quietly, hoping he’d understand, hoping he’d look at me — really look — and see how drained I was.
But he didn’t even lift his eyes from the TV.
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