Nathan’s call came just as Liv had finally settled the kids for their naps. Her laptop blinked with deadlines, her body worn from juggling motherhood and remote work. Then came his voice—cheerful, oblivious: “We’ll be there in five! Celeste, my boss, is with me. Can you make that roast you did last time?”
Liv froze. The roast took three hours. She had forty-five minutes. But Nathan had always assumed her time was elastic, her energy infinite. She’d always delivered—until now.
She moved like a ghost through the kitchen, setting the table with their wedding china, folding napkins into swans, lighting candles. Not for Nathan. Not for Celeste. For herself. This wasn’t hospitality—it was a reckoning.
When Celeste arrived, Liv greeted her with grace. The table shimmered with elegance. But the roast? It was toast. Literally. Liv had plated burnt bread with garnish, served with a smile that masked years of exhaustion.
Nathan’s face fell. Celeste blinked. Liv didn’t flinch.
“I thought you’d love to meet my incredible wife,” Nathan had said. And she was incredible—but not in the way he imagined. Not as a silent fixer of his messes. Not as a background performer in his career drama.
That night, Liv didn’t just serve dinner. She served a message: her time, her dignity, her fire—none of it was disposable.
