Every Fourth of July, I’ve made it my mission to create something special for Joel’s family—decorating the yard, washing every linen, ironing crisp tablecloths, and preparing enough food to feed twenty guests. Joel likes to say it’s a “team effort,” but while I’m juggling lists and scrubbing floors, he avoids anything involving shopping, bleach, or what he calls “fussing.” Still, he expects perfection.
This year, when Joel’s estranged brother Miles said he might attend, Joel asked me to “really go all out.” That meant more decorations, an extra batch of sangria, and everything just right. So I sliced apples into star shapes, hung lanterns across the trees, and cooked for hours—while Joel prepared two racks of ribs and called himself the day’s “star chef.”
The party arrived, and the yard looked beautiful. The sangria sparkled, and every dish—pies, coleslaw, chicken, potatoes—was perfectly ready. Guests complimented everything, until Joel raised his glass and joked that while I’d “set the scene,” his ribs were the real star. People laughed, but something in me sank. I quietly stepped inside, wiping away tears on a hand towel I’d ironed just that morning.
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