Then he’d left me alone with the cooking.
Again.
Hosting his family had never been a shared responsibility. It was my responsibility, with occasional compliments sprinkled on top.
His mother, Gladys, loved telling everyone I was “such a natural hostess.”
What she really meant was I never complained. At least not out loud.
By noon, the house was full.
His brothers claimed the living room, his sisters sampled food before lunch was ready, and the kids tore through the hallway while their parents laughed.
Nobody offered to help.
Somehow, everyone assumed food simply appeared.
I moved between the kitchen and dining room, carrying tray after tray while conversations flowed around me.
“Smells amazing.”
“Ivy always knows how to feed a crowd.”
“This roast better be as good as last time.”
