My husband, Darren, treats his birthday like a performance review — one where the whole world is invited and I’m responsible for the applause, the menu, and the flawless execution.

Every February, our home turns into his stage. The food has to be “restaurant-level.” The wine must “pair properly.” Even his cologne is applied with the seriousness of a man preparing for judgment.

This year, he decided he wanted a party. Not a casual gathering — a carefully curated, image-heavy dinner meant to impress the right people.

“We’ll host it here,” he said, adjusting his tie in the mirror. “It’ll feel more personal.”

What he meant was more work for me.

It wasn’t just a few friends. It was executives, colleagues, and people whose names he said with emphasis. And naturally, I was the caterer, planner, cleaner, and babysitter, all while juggling three kids and a marriage already cracking under its own weight.

When I asked who was coming, he waved me off.

“I’ve started inviting people,” he said. “I’ll finalize the list later. This is important, Amber. I need you to take it seriously.”

He left a “menu” on the counter.

It wasn’t a menu — it was a manifesto.

Twenty dishes. Two roasts. Shrimp cocktail. Elaborate sides. Three desserts. Hand-piped cannoli. A Pinterest-level dip that once ended with me crying in the kitchen.

I stood there holding the list while the baby monitor crackled, Maisie fussing from teething pain. Hollis shouted for chocolate cereal. Junie, eight years old and quietly observant, tugged at my sleeve.

“Mommy, do you need help?”

I smiled and told her I had it, even though I knew I didn’t.

I assumed Darren would at least watch the kids while I shopped. He refused.

“It’s not that hard,” he said without looking up from his phone. “Just walk if you have to.”

“With three kids?” I asked. “And all that food?”

“We’re not made of gas,” he replied.

He’d sold my car after Maisie was born. When I reminded him, he shrugged.

“You’re not working. Where do you need to go?”

I stared at him, stunned, and then did what I always did — swallowed it.

Junie asked if she could come help carry groceries. I said yes, grateful for her quiet solidarity.

The wind was brutal that morning. I bundled Maisie into the stroller, handed Hollis the list like it was a mission, and let Junie walk close beside me, chatting softly about clouds and school.

At the store, I smiled through numb fingers and exhaustion. By checkout, the cart was overflowing — half food for my kids, half for Darren’s ego.

I split the bags, looped them over my shoulders, loaded what I could into the stroller. Junie carefully held the eggs on her lap for the walk home.

We didn’t make it far.

My boot hit ice. I fell hard, twisting midair so I wouldn’t crush the stroller. Pain exploded through my arm. Bags flew. Jars rolled. Maisie screamed. Junie was on her knees beside me instantly.

“Mommy? Mommy?”

A woman across the street ran over. She helped us gather everything and drove us to urgent care.

The fracture was clean but painful. Six weeks in a cast. Limited movement. Pain medication.

I texted Darren.

“I slipped on the way back from the store. I’m at urgent care. My arm is fractured.”

His reply came minutes later.

“So… does this mean you’re not cooking? What time will you be home? I’m busy.”

Junie noticed the tears before I did.

I went home and cooked anyway.

Not because I wanted to, but because it felt easier than explaining why I couldn’t. Or why I shouldn’t have to.

Everything took longer. I used my hip to close cabinets, my knees to push doors, my teeth to open packages. Maisie cried whenever I moved away. Hollis “helped” by eating cheese. Junie watched me quietly from the counter.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered one night.

“I know,” I said.

“Then why are you?”

I didn’t have an answer.

Darren started working later. Or said he did. He laughed at texts. He wore cologne I wasn’t allowed to touch. He didn’t notice my winces or Junie biting her nails again.

One night, his phone buzzed while he was in the shower.

I looked.

The messages weren’t subtle.

“Tomorrow again, D?”

“I loved having the house to ourselves.”

“Tell her you’re working late.”

Rachel.

I closed the phone, pulled the lamb from the fridge, and kept cooking.

The night before the party, I texted her.

“Hi Rachel, just confirming. 6:30 tomorrow. Bring wine if you’d like!”

She replied quickly, cheerful and oblivious.

The house looked perfect on the night of the party. Pressed linens. Garnished platters. A pale blue dress zipped by Junie’s careful hands.

“You look like a princess,” she said.

“No,” I told her. “I just look done pretending.”

Guests arrived. Compliments flowed. Darren smiled tightly.

Then Rachel walked in, bright lipstick, curled hair, wine in hand.

Darren went pale.

After dinner, I stood and raised my glass.

“Thirty-six looks good on you,” I said. “You’ve built a life that impresses people.”

Polite clapping.

“I cooked this dinner one-handed,” I continued. “I slipped on ice getting groceries while Darren was home working. I texted him from urgent care. His only concern was whether dinner would still happen.”

Silence.

“And then I saw the texts,” I said calmly. “Welcome, Rachel.”

Darren stood, furious.

“This is a joke!”

“No,” I said. “This is honesty.”

Rachel fled.

Later, Darren cornered me.

“You think this is clever?”

“No,” I replied. “This is me leaving.”

“You’ll have nothing,” he snapped.

“I have my children,” I said. “And my self-respect.”

In the end, Darren wanted a feast to prove his worth.

What he got was the truth — served plainly, and without apology.