They laughed and ate until the food ran out, realizing I hadn’t touched a plate. “Aren’t you eating?” his mother asked. I replied calmly, “Oh no, this is all for you. You deserve the full portion.” The silence was louder than their chatter. Later, my husband accused me of making things “awkward.” I told him the truth: I wasn’t their servant, and I was done being invisible.
The next week, I didn’t cook at all. Instead, I greeted them warmly and pointed to bread and butter in the kitchen. His sister joked about me being “on strike.” I laughed back, “Let’s call it a new tradition.” Slowly, things began to shift. His sister brought dessert, his mom made salad, and even his brother offered to help with dishes. For the first time, they saw me.
Months later, my husband finally admitted he’d taken me for granted. We bought the house in our own names, free from control. That first Sunday alone, just the two of us, he poured the drinks and did the dishes. “Thank you for not giving up,” he said. I smiled. “Thank you for finally showing up.”
