I thought the worst part of hosting my husband’s family for the World Cup would be cooking and cleaning for 14 people. Then I walked into my living room and caught my mother-in-law doing something I’d never be able to unsee.
By the time the first whistle blew, my feet already ached.
I’d been awake since six that morning, cleaning a house that had been perfectly respectable the night before.
Then I’d spent hours grocery shopping, marinating meat, chopping vegetables, baking desserts, and trying to figure out how 14 adults could all have different opinions about potato salad.
Apparently, they could.
Eli had kissed my cheek before disappearing into the backyard to help his brothers set up extra chairs.
“You’re amazing,” he’d said.
I’d smiled because I wanted to believe he meant it.
