Every Saturday, like clockwork, they came.
Not just one or two relatives dropping by casually—but seven of them. His parents, his aunt, his cousin and her husband, his younger brother… even that one uncle who never lifted a finger but always had something to critique.
By 10 a.m., the doorbell would start ringing.
By 10:15, shoes would be scattered across the hallway.
By 10:30, someone would already be asking, “What’s for lunch?”
And by noon… I was deep in it.
Chopping. Frying. Stirring. Reheating. Plating.
Smiling.
Always smiling.
Because that’s what a “good wife” does, right?
Six hours.
Six straight hours of cooking, cleaning, refilling drinks, wiping counters, clearing plates, scrubbing pans.
No break.
No “thank you.”
No one saying, “Sit down, you’ve done enough.”
Meanwhile, they sat comfortably in the living room, laughing, scrolling on their phones, debating trivial things like whose turn it was to host next—knowing full well it would never be them.
Because it was always me.
At first, I told myself it was temporary.
After all, they had helped us once.
When my husband lost his job, it was his family who stepped in. They loaned us money. They brought groceries. They helped us stay afloat when everything felt like it was collapsing.
I was grateful.
Deeply.
But somewhere along the way, gratitude turned into obligation… and obligation turned into silent servitude.
The breaking point came on a Wednesday night.
I was standing at the sink, my hands raw from scrubbing, staring at a stack of dishes that felt never-ending.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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