Mark dropped the bags abruptly on the porch floor, and the crash made my head ache even more. He shot me a sharp look, as if urging me to move and wipe that expression of sadness from my face. I tried to ignore his cold attitude and go inside to rest. My body was exhausted. Not only was I physically drained from watching over my mother’s body since the previous night, but my soul was in pieces. However, my steps halted when Mark grabbed my arm forcefully. He forced me to turn and face him. His gaze was cold and demanding. He told me I couldn’t rest now. In 2 hours, important guests from his company would be arriving at our house.
He reminded me that today was the day of the party to celebrate his long-awaited promotion and he had already invited his entire team, including the department director, to a dinner at our home. Hearing his words, my eyes widened. I was speechless. I couldn’t believe my husband could be so cruel. How could he think about parties and celebrations when the earth covering my mother’s grave was still fresh? With a hoarse and broken voice, I refused his request. I begged him to cancel the event or at least move it to another location. I told him this house was in mourning, that I couldn’t bear the sound of laughter and loud music while my heart was weeping.
I appealed to his conscience, trying to remind him of my mother’s kindness during her life, how she had always supported him in difficult times, and how she always gave us part of her modest pension to help us out. But my words only served to unleash his anger. His face turned red. The pressure of his hand on my arm intensified to the point where I felt my bones might break. There on the porch of our house, he yelled at me in a voice so loud the neighbors could have heard. The words that came out of his mouth were like daggers digging into my open wound. He screamed that my mother was already dead, that there was no use in continuing to cry.