I glanced down and counted the names twice.
Fifty people.
My husband, Mark, stood behind her with his arms folded, wearing that smug little smile he saved for moments when he knew I was trapped.
“It’s my promotion party,” he said. “Mom invited everyone important. Don’t screw this up.”
I looked at him. “You invited fifty people to our house without asking me?”
Patricia scoffed. “A good wife doesn’t need to be asked to support her husband.”
Then Mark leaned in close enough that only I could hear him.
“You won’t dare embarrass me.”
That was the moment something inside me went completely quiet.
For six years, I had cooked, cleaned, hosted, smiled, apologized, and swallowed every insult because I believed keeping peace meant keeping my marriage alive. I had watched Patricia rearrange my kitchen, criticize my clothes, call me “too sensitive,” and tell Mark he had married beneath him.
And Mark never stood up for me.
Not once.
That night, I smiled sweetly and said, “Of course. I’ll take care of everything.”
