I thought the worst part of hosting my husband’s family for the World Cup would be cooking and cleaning for 14 people. Then I walked into my living room and caught my mother-in-law doing something I’d never be able to unsee.
By the time the first whistle blew, my feet already ached.
I’d been awake since six that morning, cleaning a house that had been perfectly respectable the night before.
Then I’d spent hours grocery shopping, marinating meat, chopping vegetables, baking desserts, and trying to figure out how 14 adults could all have different opinions about potato salad.
Apparently, they could.
Eli had kissed my cheek before disappearing into the backyard to help his brothers set up extra chairs.
“You’re amazing,” he’d said.
I’d smiled because I wanted to believe he meant it.
Then he’d left me alone with the cooking.
Again.
Hosting his family had never been a shared responsibility. It was my responsibility, with occasional compliments sprinkled on top.
His mother, Gladys, loved telling everyone I was “such a natural hostess.”
What she really meant was I never complained. At least not out loud.
By noon, the house was full.
His brothers claimed the living room, his sisters sampled food before lunch was ready, and the kids tore through the hallway while their parents laughed.
Nobody offered to help.
Somehow, everyone assumed food simply appeared.
I moved between the kitchen and dining room, carrying tray after tray while conversations flowed around me.
“Smells amazing.”
“Ivy always knows how to feed a crowd.”
“This roast better be as good as last time.”
Compliments that somehow still felt like expectations.
Gladys swept into the kitchen just as I pulled the vegetables from the oven. She looked over the counter with folded arms.
“You used fresh rosemary?”
“I did.”
“I usually use thyme.”
I forced a smile.
“I wanted to try something different.”
“Hmm.”
That one little sound carried enough judgment to curdle milk.
She lifted the foil covering the roast without asking.
“I hope you didn’t overcook it.”
Before I could answer, she walked away.
I just stared, too tired to fire back.
Before everyone sat down to eat, Gladys asked if I’d remembered to start the livestream for the relatives who couldn’t make it.
“I already did,” I said.
She beamed.
“Perfect. They’ll love feeling included.”
I checked that the livestream was running and left my phone on the bookshelf facing the living room.
