“You invite guests for the holiday and I’m still just the cook?” Luciane protested, frowning.

She pulled yet another tray of meat from the oven. The May heat was already unbearable — and the kitchen, after hours of roasting, felt like a furnace.

Wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, she glanced out the window.
Outside, her husband Shelly was passionately discussing a new ATV model with his friends, beer bottle in hand.
Laughter, conversation, and music filled the backyard of their countryside home — their pride and joy: two stories, spacious rooms, a cozy terrace, and a small patch of garden.

Not quite a villa, but far better than the cramped city apartment they’d lived in during their first three years of marriage.
They had bought the house four years earlier, taken out a mortgage, emptied their savings — but they finally had their own place in a quiet village, just thirty minutes from the city.
A perfect spot for relaxing, hosting, and living well.

The first May holiday after the move had been magical.
Luciane cheerfully bustled around the kitchen preparing treats for their friends.
Shelly managed the grill, while their three closest couple friends helped set the table, clean up, and wash dishes.
It was truly fun — music, dancing, games until dawn.
— “Luciane, your appetizers are amazing! Teach me your recipes!” Marina, her college friend, had beamed.
— “Cooking for grateful guests is a joy,” Luciane had replied sincerely.

But in the second year, things changed.
Shelly started inviting not just close friends, but also coworkers.
The guest count grew to fifteen.
Luciane had to buy food in bulk, spending an entire day in the kitchen — chopping vegetables, roasting meat, preparing snacks.

But the new guests behaved differently — they expected everything to be ready and offered no help.
— “Luc, you’re such a hostess! Shelly’s a lucky man!” the coworkers’ wives gushed as they happily devoured her food.
Luciane just smiled.
She still enjoyed hosting — but by the end of the night, she felt completely drained.
Like a squeezed lemon.

By the third year, Luciane started to dread May.
Every time Shelly brought up inviting people, her stomach twisted.
Not because she disliked guests.
She hated feeling invisible.

That year, the guest list grew to over twenty people — including Shelly’s new manager, someone he wanted to impress.

— “Let’s keep it simple this year,” he said casually, scrolling through his phone.
— “Just barbecue and your usual sides. Nothing fancy.”

And there she was again — sweating over a hot stove.
No help.
No gratitude beyond a passing compliment.

Luciane stepped onto the patio, holding a tray of puff pastry, when someone clapped.
She looked up, startled.

It was Layla — a friend of a friend. She smiled warmly.
— “You made all this? Oh my god. You’re a machine!”

Luciane gave a small smile, her arms aching. — “Thanks.”
She was about to retreat back inside when Layla gently grabbed her arm.

— “You know… if you ever started a little catering side hustle, I’d be your first client.”

Luciane blinked. — “Catering?”

— “Yes! This is restaurant-quality. I mean it.”

That simple comment echoed in her head the rest of the day.

Later that night, long after the guests had left and Shelly had fallen asleep in front of the TV, Luciane stayed awake.
She opened her phone and typed:
“How to start a home catering business.”

By the fourth year, everything had changed.
And not in the way anyone expected.

Luciane didn’t cook that year.
At least, not for Shelly’s party.

— “Oh babe, I already told everyone you’d be doing your famous lamb skewers,” Shelly said in April.

Luciane smiled.
— “Sorry. I’m already booked that weekend.”

— “Booked? What do you mean?”

— “I’ve got two big Mother’s Day brunch orders.”
She calmly folded a dish towel.

— “Wait — what orders?”

Luciane turned to him.
— “I started doing catering. Just small gigs for now. Layla helped me spread the word. I even made a Facebook page.”

Shelly looked stunned.
— “But what about the May party?”

— “You’ll have to cook yourself or order takeout. I’ll be working.”

He scoffed.
— “You can’t cancel the tradition!”

Luciane shrugged.
— “I didn’t. You did — when you stopped treating me like a partner and started treating me like free labor.”

She didn’t say it with anger.
She said it with truth.

Shelly didn’t say much after that.
And when the day came, the backyard was still full of chatter and music.
But this time, the tables were lined with store-bought food.
Plastic cutlery. Bottled soda.

Luciane spent the day in the village hall, where she’d rented a small kitchen space.
Her desserts, mini sandwiches, and strawberry mousse cups disappeared in minutes.

She received five new orders that day.
One woman even asked if she could cater a small wedding.

When she returned home, the party was over.
Shelly sat on the couch with a half-empty beer.
He didn’t say a word when she entered — just looked at her with a strange mix of pride and confusion.

By the fifth year, Luciane had a small team.
Her weekends were packed with catering gigs — birthdays, intimate weddings, company lunches.
Her online following had grown, and clients adored her personal touch and handcrafted sweets.

She and Shelly still lived in the same house.
But now, Luciane had her own studio kitchen — fully renovated, in the garage, and completely hers.

Their marriage? It changed.
It had to.

They argued.
Then they talked.
Eventually, Shelly started helping her on weekends — washing trays, organizing ingredients.

He still hosted a small May party — but it was quieter.
Just close friends.
Simple food.
Sometimes he even handled the grill alone.

And Luciane?

She finally started enjoying May again.
Not because of the parties.
But because she had found herself again.

She no longer cooked out of obligation.
She cooked with purpose.

Life lesson?
Sometimes we give so much of ourselves that we forget to keep anything for ourselves.
It’s easy to fall into roles — “the cook,” “the helper,” “the wife” — until we forget who we were before them.

But we can say no.
We can grow.
We can change.
We can dream new dreams — even if it makes others uncomfortable at first.

Luciane didn’t burn bridges.
She just built a new path.

And now she walks it — with confidence, joy,
and a heart full of flavor. 🍓✨