Every Sunday, my husband’s family of eight comes for lunch. I cook, clean, and do dishes, but I’d had enough. When I told Rafiq, he mentioned they gifted us our house, implying obligation. That Sunday, I presented a spreadsheet detailing three years of my unpaid labor—cooking, cleaning, groceries—next to the lasagna. Everyone froze. I calmly explained it was the cost of my efforts, then left the table.
I stayed with my cousin Asha for weeks, enjoying quiet Sundays. Rafiq eventually admitted the house felt empty without me. He began tracking what his family owed us, acknowledging my burden. We started therapy, unpacking his guilt over the house and my feelings of being invisible. Sundays changed—no more forced lunches, just potlucks or personal time.
Surprisingly, Rafiq’s sister Manya apologized, admitting she took my efforts for granted after her own breakup. She even started hosting lunches. His mother, Amma, began helping too, once saying, “I didn’t raise my son to forget his wife.” Rafiq and I now share responsibilities, and I’ve learned to demand respect. A year later, at a family lunch, I toasted to shared effort. Gratitude shouldn’t chain you; boundaries teach others how to treat you.
