We settled on sliders, pasta, salads, vegetables, dessert trays, and a large cake reading Happy Birthday, Jason.

The total came to around six hundred dollars.

I paid from my personal savings—the account he didn’t know about.

It stung.

But not nearly as much as his complete lack of concern ever had.

Then I made the third call.

My attorney.

We’d met months earlier, back when I started searching phrases like mental load in marriage and is this normal or am I imagining things? She’d already prepared divorce papers “for whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” I said. “Can he be served at the party?”

There was a pause. Then, “Yes. We can arrange that.”

We set the details.

The next day, the cleaning crew arrived while Jason was at work. Three people scrubbed the house from top to bottom—even corners I’d never paid attention to.

Jason texted once from work.

House looks amazing. You didn’t have to go that hard lol.

I replied: I told you I’d handle it.

The morning of the party, Maria and another caterer arrived with all the food and set everything up—chafing dishes, serving utensils, labeled trays, the cake perfectly centered.

Maria glanced at my cast.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked gently. “You look worn out.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Tonight matters.”

By the time guests began arriving, the house was immaculate. The food looked magazine-perfect. Music played softly. Candles glowed.

Jason walked around like a man who’d planned everything himself.

“See?” he said, draping an arm over my uninjured shoulder. “I knew you’d pull it off. You always do.”

I smiled—and stepped away.

His coworkers arrived, then friends, then family.

People kept asking, “What happened to your arm?” and “You still managed all this?”

Before I could respond, Jason would laugh and say, “She’s tough. Insisted on doing it all anyway.”

Then his mother, Linda, walked in.

She noticed my cast immediately and wrinkled her nose.

“What did you do this time?” she asked.

“I slipped on the porch,” I said. “There was ice. I broke my arm.”

She gave a dismissive sniff. “If it were me, I’d still be cooking. Broken arm or not. When I fractured my wrist, dinner was still on the table.”