I returned the list to him.
“Hire someone, order food, or cut the guest list.”
“Then order prepared trays.”
“I don’t want my birthday to look cheap.”
I met his eyes.
“You’d rather your injured wife cook all day than let your friends see store-bought food?”
“My mother hosted bigger parties than this.”
“She would’ve managed.”
There it was—the comparison he relied on whenever he wanted my labor without considering what it required from me.
“Call the guests,” I said. “Tell them the plan changed.”
“I’m not canceling.”
“I can’t spend my birthday in the kitchen.”
His response came without hesitation.
Donald understood perfectly that working in the kitchen would be exhausting.
He simply believed that exhaustion belonged to me.
After arguing for several minutes, he agreed to purchase the main dishes. I agreed to prepare three appetizers and the cake.
“That’s all,” I said.
“Say it back.”
He exhaled. “Three appetizers and the cake.”
Two days before the celebration, I found him standing at the counter scrolling through his phone.
“Send me the food confirmation.”
He kept looking at the screen.
“I didn’t place the order.”
My hand tightened around the crutch.
“Why?”
“It was too expensive. You cook better anyway.”
“That wasn’t our agreement.”
“I already told everyone about your ribs and the cake.” He gestured toward the groceries he had arranged to be delivered.
“Why would you promise food I never agreed to make?”
“Because you’re good at it. You’ll work it out.”
I gripped the crutch harder.
“Then cook it yourself.”
—
My alarm sounded at four o’clock on the morning of the party.
I lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about refusing to leave the bed.
For one brief moment, I imagined all 30 guests arriving to discover bags of chips, lukewarm soda, and Donald’s explanations.
Then I pictured them searching our cupboards and asking me what had happened.
I hated myself for caring.
Even worse, I hated that Donald had counted on it.
So I got up.
I pushed my office chair into the kitchen and prepared the food in painful intervals, sitting whenever my uninjured leg began trembling.
By seven, I had finished two dips, a vegetable platter, a salad, and the cake layers.
By nine, my shoulders ached from supporting myself on the crutches.
Donald entered wearing brand-new swimming trunks.
He appeared completely rested.
He dipped a finger into one of the bowls.
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