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The following Sunday, I didn’t cook at all. I stayed in bed with a movie while the doorbell rang. When I finally answered, I gestured toward the kitchen.
His sister half-joked, “Are you on strike?”
“Let’s call it a new tradition,” I smiled.
That afternoon, they ate lightly, stayed briefly, and left quietly. My husband said almost nothing.
The First Apology
A few days later, the phone rang. It was his older sister. Her voice was softer than I’d ever heard.
“We’ve been rude,” she admitted. “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t gloat. I simply said, “No need for words. Just bring dessert next time.”
Because that was all I wanted—not to be served, not to be praised, but to be seen.
A Shift at the Table
The next Sunday, something shifted. His sister arrived with a cake. His mother carried in a salad. His brother rolled up his sleeves and joined me at the sink.
My husband, however, kept his distance. He acted like I had rearranged the furniture inside his mind and he couldn’t find his footing.
One evening I asked, “Are you mad?”
He looked down. “You changed things. It feels… weird.”
“I had to,” I said softly. “I was drowning. And you didn’t notice.”
His voice cracked. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“That’s the problem,” I replied. “You never asked.”
