“Your mother is gone. Tears won’t bring her back—so wipe your face, make dinner, and don’t look like a grieving child when my guests arrive.” That was what my husband said.

Just then, the doorbell rang. My heart skipped a beat, not with joy, but with anxiety. The first guest had arrived. The hellish party was about to begin. Mark’s expression changed instantly. A fake radiant smile spread across his lips. He opened the door enthusiastically, greeting the guest with a loud laugh. I stood behind him with my head bowed, taking a deep breath of the air that felt oppressive, and prepared to play the role of a servant in my own home on the day of my mother’s death. As soon as the door swung wide open, the tranquility of our home vanished. Mark’s co-workers burst in loudly, bringing with them a mix of different perfumes and deafening laughter.