“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.

Hearing those cheap flatteries and stale promises, I felt nauseous. Perhaps the old me, the foolish woman who always believed he could change, would have softened at the sight of his tears. But my mother’s death and today’s events had killed that old Sarah. I looked at Mark with an empty, emotionless gaze. I remembered Mark’s reaction when I returned from the funeral and was crying. That sentence echoed clearly in my ears. What good is crying going to do? Your mother isn’t going to come back to life. That sentence was now a boomerang coming back to hit him. I took a step back, freeing my dress from his dirty hand.