ADVERTISEMENT
At first, I told myself it was fine. This is what families do, right? But slowly, the weight of it all began to wear me down. My Sundays stopped being days of joy. They became marathons of unpaid labor.
“I can’t keep doing this. I’m done.”
His response landed like a slap.
“They got us the house. Is this your thank you?”
As if my time, my labor, my very exhaustion were a debt I owed for a gift I never asked for.
That was the moment something inside me shifted.
A New Tradition
The next Sunday, I smiled wide and served their favorite stew. But I only made one pot. I wore no apron. I didn’t set extra sides. And when the bowls were passed around, I didn’t take one for myself.
When my mother-in-law asked why I wasn’t eating, I answered sweetly:
“Oh, this is all for you. After all these years, you deserve the full portion.”
“You didn’t eat?” he asked quietly.
“You all come first, right?” I shrugged.
That night, after the house grew silent, he hissed, “You made things awkward.”
I stood tall for the first time in years. “I’ve been invisible for three years. No one asked how I was. No one brought dessert. No one lifted a finger. I’m not a servant. I’m your wife. A host—not hired help.”
