Every Sunday, my husband’s family of eight descended on our house. I cooked, cleaned, and smiled while exhaustion swallowed me whole. When I begged for a break, he said, “They helped us buy this house. Can’t you just be grateful?”
So I decided to teach gratitude the only way he’d feel it.
That Sunday, I woke early, plated roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and warm apple pie that smelled like heaven. Everyone raved. My husband beamed, “Best meal yet, babe.”
I smiled sweetly. “Glad you enjoyed it.”
After they left, he found the catering receipt. Shock hit his face like cold water.
“I didn’t cook a thing,” I said calmly. “Tell me again how easy it is to host when someone else does all the work.”
Silence. Then understanding.
Now his family still comes, but everyone brings a dish, and he scrubs pots beside me. Sundays are loud, messy, and shared.
I didn’t declare war. I just stopped fighting alone.
Some lessons taste better when someone else has to chew on them.
