The wedding had barely ended when Mrs. Reyes collapsed onto the bed without even taking off her apron.

Her body ached from head to toe. Her feet burned. Her shoulders throbbed. The house still smelled of oil, perfume, and too many people. The kitchen was a disaster, the floor was sticky, and every surface seemed to carry the fingerprints of celebration.

But rest, in that house, never lasted long.

At five in the morning, she was awake again.

By six, she was already in the kitchen, scrubbing pots with stiff fingers. By eight, she was sweeping corners, wiping tables, and muttering to herself about crumbs, stains, and lazy guests who left a mess behind. By eleven, her back was bent, her temper was rising, and one thought had begun repeating in her head like a drumbeat.

The new bride was still upstairs.

No footsteps.

No running water.

No soft voice.

No movement at all.

Mrs. Reyes wiped her forehead with the edge of her sleeve and stared up the staircase.

“Daughter-in-law!” she shouted. “Come down and prepare the food!”

Silence.

Her irritation sharpened instantly.

“Daughter-in-law! Wake up!”Still nothing.

Her feet hurt too much to keep climbing those stairs over and over, and anger gave her the strength exhaustion had taken away. She grabbed a stick from the kitchen corner and marched upward, step by furious step, muttering all the way.