vf-“YOUR MOTHER IS DEAD, AND CRYING WON’T BRING HE…

Your mother is dead. What good is crying going to do? Is it going to bring her back? Hurry up and get dinner ready. My friends will be here soon. Those were the first words my husband said to me. It had been exactly 2 hours since I had returned home from my mother’s funeral. My husband forced me to cook for his party on the very day she was buried. It all felt like a never-ending nightmare until a man showed up and told my husband, “Everyone who’s anyone in this town knows exactly who your mother-in-law was—everyone but you.” After that night, everything changed forever. The sound of the car engine cutting off echoed with an unnatural sharpness in the silence of the cold garage.

The afternoon sun beat down as if mocking the gray sky that blanketed my heart. It had only been 2 hours. I had just left Oakidge Cemetery, where the cold body of my mother, Mrs. Eleanor Vance, my only family, had become one with the damp reddish earth. The scent of chrysanthemums and the smell of wet soil seemed to linger in my nostrils, mixing with the salty taste of dried tears on my cheeks. I got out of the car with heavy steps as if I were wearing shackles on my ankles. All I wanted was to go to my room, lock the door, and hug the pillow she had left me so I could release the rest of the tears that constricted my chest.

But before my hand could touch the front doorknob, the impatient voice of my husband, Mark, shattered the silence. Mark was frowning, glancing at his expensive wristwatch. He didn’t look like a man who had just lost his mother-in-law. There was no trace of pain on his face. On the contrary, his eyes shone with a strange mix of excitement and restlessness. He rushed to open the trunk of the car and pulled out several large grocery bags that I didn’t know when he had bought. I stood motionless on the porch, staring blankly at the pots with my mother’s favorite orchids, which were beginning to wilt from not being watered since the morning.

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.

He said loudly a phrase I will never forget in my life. Crying wouldn’t bring her back. He ordered me to start serving his guests immediately to prepare the best meal and not to disappoint them with my funeral face. Mark pushed me and I stumbled backward nearly falling against the wall. He threw the grocery bags at me which contained raw meat, vegetables, spices, and several bottles of wine. Some of the contents spilled out, chicken, vegetables, seasonings, and several bottles of drinks. He gave me an ultimatum. In two hours he wanted every trace of morning to have disappeared from the house, the table to be filled with delicacies, and me to be presentable to receive the guests.

With that, he went into the bathroom, whistling, leaving me collapsed on the porch floor, crying uncontrollably again. With trembling hands, I began to pick up the ingredients one by one. I wanted to run away from that house, to go as far away as possible. But my mother’s last words echoed in my ears. She had always told me to be a devoted wife, to keep peace in the home. She always believed Mark was a good man, just going through a rough patch. To honor her memory, I forced myself to stand up. I took all the bags to the kitchen. This kitchen was my mother’s favorite place.

In that corner, she used to sit and clean scallions while telling me stories of her youth. Now the kitchen felt terribly silent and cold. I started working like a soulless robot. I washed the potatoes with cold water, a cold that chilled me to the bone. My thoughts flew to the moment I had washed my mother’s body that very morning. Her cold skin, her peaceful face. My tears fell into the water I was using to wash the vegetables. I wiped my face harshly with my sleeve. I tried to stop the tears, but it was useless. The more I tried to hold them back, the more forcefully they flowed.