“Your mother is gone. Tears won’t bring her back—so wipe your face, make dinner, and don’t look like a grieving child when my guests arrive.” That was what my husband said.

Instead, he pointed out my disheveled appearance. He scolded me again, telling me to take a shower and change my clothes quickly. He didn’t want his friends to see his wife looking like a miserable servant. He emphasized that I should smile, be friendly, and attend to any request from the guests. He said he didn’t want to see a single complaint or a single tear when they arrived. I dragged myself to the bathroom. Under the shower stream, I cried bitterly. The sound of the water drowned my sobs of anguish. I scrubbed my body hard as if trying to wash away the traces of grief that had clung to me.

But the grief was not on my skin. It was in my blood and in my breath. After the shower, I put on a simple, sober dress. I wore no makeup as no cosmetics could hide my swollen eyes. I looked at myself in the mirror, a pale face, lifeless eyes surrounded by dark circles. It was the face of a daughter who had lost her mother, a face forced to wear a mask of happiness for her husband’s pride. When I left the room, Mark was already by the front door. He commented sarcastically that my face still looked pathetic, but that there was no time to fix it further.

Just then, the doorbell rang. My heart skipped a beat, not with joy, but with anxiety. The first guest had arrived. The hellish party was about to begin. Mark’s expression changed instantly. A fake radiant smile spread across his lips. He opened the door enthusiastically, greeting the guest with a loud laugh. I stood behind him with my head bowed, taking a deep breath of the air that felt oppressive, and prepared to play the role of a servant in my own home on the day of my mother’s death. As soon as the door swung wide open, the tranquility of our home vanished. Mark’s co-workers burst in loudly, bringing with them a mix of different perfumes and deafening laughter.