“I Didn’t Invite You,” My Daughter-in-Law Said Calmly – In the House I Built and At the Table I Paid For.

The Concrete Floor of the Laundry Room

That night Khloe announced she was going to host a dinner, a big dinner for her birthday.

“I’m going to invite my whole family,”

she said excitedly.

“My parents, my siblings, my cousins, and my friends from work too. It’s going to be an incredible party.”

“How many people?”

I asked.

“Like 20 people, maybe 25.”

25 people in my house. And who is going to cook?

I asked even though I already knew the answer.

“Oh, Eleanor, you cook deliciously. Would you do me the favor? I know it’s a lot of work, but nobody makes green chili enchiladas like you.”

She smiled at me. That sweet smile she used when she wanted something.

“Please, it’s my birthday.”

I agreed. Of course I agreed because that’s what I did—say yes with pleasure to make everyone happy even if I was left exhausted.

Chloe gave me a list, a long list of everything she wanted for her birthday: green chili enchiladas, Spanish rice, charro beans, fresh guacamole, pico de gallo, three different types of salsa, homemade tortillas, and a tres leches cake.

According to her, I made it better than any bakery.

“Do you have money for all this?”

I asked her.

“Oh, Eleanor, you know Dan and I are saving. Could you pay for the food? We’ll pay you back later.”

We’ll pay you back later. Those four words that never came true.

I took money out of my pension, $200. It was almost all I had left for the month, but it was my daughter-in-law’s birthday and I wanted it to be special.

I still had that foolish hope that if I was kind, if I gave more, if I tried harder, she would start to see me, to respect me, to like me a little. I went to the market alone.

I bought everything on the list: the reddest tomatoes, the freshest chiles, the most tender chicken, the perfect avocados. I carried the bags back home.

My arms hurt and my back hurt, but it didn’t matter. I got home and started preparing everything.

It was 3:00 in the afternoon the day before the party. Chloe was in the living room watching television with freshly painted nails.

“Do you need help?”

she asked without looking up from the screen.

“No, don’t worry. I can manage.”

“Great. I just got my nails done and I don’t want to ruin them.”

I spent the whole afternoon cooking and all night. Chloe went to bed at 11.

Dan didn’t even come home for dinner. He was working late, he told me in a text.

I stayed there chopping onions, boiling chicken, and grinding chiles. My eyes burned.

My hands smelled like garlic and cilantro. My feet ached from standing so long.

At 2:00 in the morning, I finished the enchiladas. I put them in the refrigerator and I cleaned the kitchen.

And then I started on the cake. The tres leches cake was complicated.

You had to bake the sponge cake, prepare the milk mixture, let it soak well, and make the meringue. It was a long process, but I had done it a thousand times for Dan’s birthday when he was little, for family parties, for every special occasion.

I put the sponge cake in the oven. I sat at the kitchen table and I waited.

The clock said 3:00 in the morning. The house was silent.

The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the tick-tock of the wall clock. That clock I had bought at the market when I moved into this house.

That clock that had watched Dan grow up, that had marked every moment of my life here. I poured myself a glass of water and I looked around.

The kitchen no longer looked like mine. The gray tiles, the white cabinets—so cold, so impersonal.

This kitchen used to be yellow, a soft yellow like the morning sun. Robert had painted it when we moved in.

He said he wanted me to cook in a cheerful place, a place full of light. Now everything was gray.

The oven timer went off. I took out the sponge cake and I let it cool.

I prepared the milk mixture and I poured it all over the cake. I put it in the refrigerator.

It was 4:30 in the morning. I went up to my room.

I lay down with my clothes on. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t sleep.

My mind was racing, thinking about everything I still had to do: the rice, the beans, the tortillas, the guacamole. At 5, I got up and I changed my clothes.

I went back to the kitchen. I started the rice, then the beans.

I put on some quiet music on the radio, old songs I used to listen to with Robert. Songs that reminded me of simpler times.

At 8:00 in the morning, Dan came down for breakfast.

“Good morning, Mom. You’ve been up for a long time.”

“A little while.”

He poured himself coffee, sat at the table, and looked at everything I had prepared.

“This looks delicious. Chloe is going to be so happy.”

“I hope so.”

“Mom, thanks for doing all this. I know it’s a lot of work.”

I nodded and I waited. I waited for him to say something else, to ask me how I felt.

To notice the dark circles under my eyes. To see that I had been cooking for almost 15 hours straight.

But he just finished his coffee, got up, and went to take a shower. Chloe came down around noon.

She was all dressed up, hair down, wearing makeup.

“Is everything ready?”

she asked.

“The guacamole and tortillas are still left, but the rest is done.”

“Perfect. The guests arrive at 6. I want everything on the table at 6:30. Okay?”

“Oh, and Eleanor, one more thing.”

She got closer and lowered her voice even though no one else was in the kitchen.

“When my parents get here, could you not be wandering around the living room? It’s just that I like to greet my guests in peace without interruptions.”

I just stared at her. Without interruptions.

As if I were an interruption in my own house.

“Where do you want me to be?”

I asked.

“I don’t know. In your room or here in the kitchen, but only come out when I call you to serve the food. Okay?”

I didn’t say anything; I just nodded. Chloe smiled.

“Thanks, Eleanor. I knew you’d understand.”

She went to the living room. I heard her talking on the phone, laughing, excited about her party.

I stayed in the kitchen making guacamole, mashing avocados, chopping cilantro, and squeezing limes. At 5 in the afternoon, I started on the tortillas.

I made them by hand, one by one. The dough between my fingers, the hot griddle, the smell of corn filling the kitchen.

I made 40 tortillas. My hands were tired and my fingers ached, but I kept going because everything had to be perfect.

At 6:00, the guests started to arrive. I heard the voices from the kitchen.

Laughter, greetings, the sound of the door opening and closing. Chloe greeted everyone.

I could hear her voice, happy and grateful.

“So glad you came! Come in, come in. This is my house. Welcome.”

My house. Those two words pierced my chest like needles.

I stayed in the kitchen finishing the last details, putting everything on platters, and garnishing the dishes. At 6:30, Chloe peeked her head through the door.

“Everything’s ready, right?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Start bringing out the food.”

I started carrying the platters to the table one by one: the enchiladas, the rice, the beans, the salsas, the tortillas. Every time I entered the dining room, the guests looked at me as if I were part of the catering staff.

No one said hello. No one asked me my name.

Chloe was sitting at the head of the table in my spot. In the spot where I always sat, the spot from which I had watched Dan grow up, from where I had shared thousands of meals with Robert.

But now it was hers. I finished putting all the food on the table and I went back to the kitchen.

I stood there looking through the pass-through window into the dining room, watching them eat, watching them laugh, watching them enjoy the food I had prepared with my own hands. Dan was sitting next to Chloe.

He looked happy, happier than I had seen him in months. Kloe raised her glass.

“I want to make a toast,”