“With what?”
She had no answer.
My husband did.
“Can we stop?” he snapped.
“This is my birthday.”
That sentence finally made something inside me settle.
For two days, he had used those words like a royal decree.
My birthday.
My guests.
My embarrassment.
My party.
Everything belonged to him except the work.
That belonged to me.
I nodded toward the table.
“Yes.
It is your birthday.
The house is clean.
Dinner is ready.
Your guests are here.
Exactly what you demanded.”
He stared at me.
“So what are you trying to prove?”
“That it didn’t happen by magic.”
He gave a humorless laugh.
“Congratulations.
You hired people.
Do you want a medal?”
“No.”
I closed the folder.
“I want you to understand that when you expect someone else to cook, clean and host for twenty people, you are asking for labor.
When you expect it from someone with a broken arm because you’re afraid your friends might judge you, you’re asking for something worse.”
His eyes flicked around the room.
That was the moment the humiliation he had threatened me with finally reached him.
But I didn’t enjoy it the way I thought I might.
I mostly felt tired.
One of the guests walked over and quietly asked if I needed help carrying anything.
I lifted my cast slightly.
“I think my carrying days are over for a while.”
She smiled gently.
“Then sit down.”
Three simple words.
Nobody had said them to me all weekend.
I sat.
My husband remained standing.
For the rest of the evening, something strange happened.
Whenever someone needed another drink, they asked him where it was.
When a serving dish emptied, nobody looked at me.
When someone asked where to put dirty plates, one of his friends pointed toward my husband and said, “Birthday boy knows the kitchen.”
At first he thought they were joking.
Then he realized they weren’t.
He carried plates.
He refilled glasses.
He answered the door when another guest arrived late.
He found serving utensils.
He wiped up a spill.
None of those things were difficult.
