Your mother is dead? So what? Now serve my guests.

Later that afternoon, the front door opened. Her husband, Darius Collins, entered, exhausted and tense from work. He distractedly loosened his tie.

“Lena… why isn’t dinner yet?” he asked, oblivious to her puffy eyes. “Mr. Maxwell Grant is coming this evening. This dinner could decide my promotion.”

Lena swallowed hard.
“Darius… my mother died today.”

He paused, just for a moment. A breath. A fleeting surprise – and then the weight of the work rested on his shoulders once more.

“Lena… I’m so sorry. I really am. But tonight is incredibly important. Can we… go ahead with this dinner? Canceling now could really hurt my chances.”

His voice didn’t sound angry, not harsh – just strained. Heavy, crushing strain.

Lena wanted to say no. She wanted to hide away and grieve. But Darius’s fear made her hesitate. Her voice sounded weak.

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