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For three years, every Sunday at noon, our house became the family’s gathering place. Without fail, eight people would stream through the door—my husband’s parents, his siblings, their children—hungry, loud, and expectant. It was tradition. I chopped, sautéed, plated, and cleaned while laughter echoed from the living room. I was the hostess, the cook, the dishwasher—and somehow, invisible.
One evening, worn thin and quietly resentful, I told my husband I was done. His response landed like a slap:
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