I came home from burying my 64-year-old mother at 3:12 p.m. and found $742 of party food on my kitchen floor. My husband pointed at it and said, “Your mother is already dead. Make dinner.” He didn’t know her name was on everything he wanted.

“Wash your face, Sofia. My guests arrive soon.”

Martin said it from the hallway, his silver watch catching the light while cemetery dirt still clung to my black heels. I had just lowered my mother into the ground. He had invited his boss over for a promotion dinner.

The house smelled like lilies from the funeral arrangement, raw garlic from the grocery bags, and the damp wool of my coat. Rain tapped the kitchen window. The leather handles of the shopping bags cut into my palms. Somewhere in the sink, a spoon kept ticking against porcelain from the faucet drip.

On the counter sat shrimp, pork loin, wine, strawberries, and two boxes of imported crackers.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Dinner,” he said. “Don’t make your grief everyone else’s problem.”

Martin Pierce was handsome in the way expensive men are handsome—pressed shirt, careful hair, cologne before compassion. He had spent three years calling my mother “that old woman” while accepting the $1,200 she gave him when his card declined at Christmas.

My mother, Elena, had worn thrift-store cardigans and kept receipts in rubber bands. Her hands always smelled like lemon soap. She prayed before meals and never raised her voice at anyone.

Martin shoved the bags closer with his shoe.

“My VP is coming at 7:00. Karla too. Try not to look abandoned.”

I picked up the pork. My fingers were shaking too hard to hold it.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice into that smooth tone he used around witnesses.

“Your mother is gone. Be useful.”

So I cooked.

Ancho pork. Garlic shrimp. Scalloped potatoes. Salad with pears and walnuts. I set the table with the blue ceramic plates my mother had given me for my wedding.

“For people you love,” she had said.

At 6:48 p.m., the doorbell rang.

Martin opened the door smiling like a widower would have embarrassed him. His coworkers filled my living room with perfume, wine breath, polished shoes, and laughter too loud for a house that still had funeral programs on the hall table.

He never told them.

Not one guest knew.

Then Karla walked in wearing a cream dress and the red lipstick I had once found on Martin’s collar.

She touched his sleeve.

“So this is Sofia,” she said, looking at my swollen eyes. “Long day?”

Martin laughed softly.