She pulled another tray of meat from the oven, the May heat unbearable—and the kitchen, warmed from hours of cooking, felt even worse.
Wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, she glanced out the window.

Outside, her husband Shelly was enthusiastically discussing a new quad bike model with his friends, waving a beer bottle.
Laughter, conversations, and music filled the yard of their country house.

Their country house was their pride and joy—two floors, spacious rooms, a terrace, and a small plot of land.
Not exactly a villa, but still far better than their cramped city apartment, where they had lived during their first three years of marriage.

They had bought it four years ago, taking out a mortgage, spending all their savings, but now they had their own little corner in the village, just half an hour from the city.
A perfect place for relaxation, guests, and life.

The first May holiday after the move was wonderful.
Luciane happily bustled in the kitchen, preparing treats for friends.
Shelly handled the grill, while their guests—three couples of their closest friends—helped set the table, clean up, wash dishes.
It had been truly fun—with music, dancing, and games until dawn.
“Luciane, your appetizers are amazing! Teach me your recipes!” Marina, her university friend, had marveled.
“Cooking for such grateful guests is a pleasure,” Luciane had replied sincerely.

By the second year, things changed.
Shelly suddenly started inviting not just close friends but also colleagues from work, and the number of guests grew to fifteen.
Luciane had to buy groceries in bulk, spending an entire day in the kitchen—chopping vegetables, baking meat, preparing snacks.
But the new guests behaved differently—they assumed everything was ready-made and offered no help.
“Luc, you’re a real hostess! Shelly is such a lucky guy!” the colleagues’ wives gushed as they happily devoured her dishes.
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 the May holiday.
The moment Shelly mentioned inviting people, her stomach tightened.
Not because she hated guests.
She hated being invisible.

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

“Babe, we’ll keep it simple this year,” he’d said casually, scrolling through his phone.
“Just barbecue and your usual sides, nothing fancy.”

“‘Usual sides’? You mean the ten different dishes I make from scratch?” Luciane asked, arms crossed.
He didn’t even look up. “You’re so good at it. It’ll be fine.”

She wanted to argue, but what was the point?

So here she was, sweating over a hot stove again.
No help. No appreciation beyond a passing compliment.

Luciane stepped out onto the terrace, holding a tray of puff pastries, and someone clapped.
She looked up, startled.

It was Layla, a friend of a friend.
She smiled warmly. “You made these too? My goodness. You’re a machine!”

Luciane gave a small smile, her arms aching. “Thanks.”
She was about to retreat into the kitchen when Layla grabbed her arm gently.

“You know, if you ever wanted to start a catering side hustle, I’d be your first customer.”

Luciane blinked. “Catering?”

“Yeah! This stuff is restaurant-level. Seriously.”

That tiny comment echoed in her mind the rest of the day.
Later that night, long after the guests had gone and Shelly had fallen asleep in front of the TV, Luciane lay awake.

She opened her phone and typed into the search bar:
“How to start a home-based catering business.”

By the fourth year, things were different.

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 had said in April.

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

“Booked? What do you mean?”

“I have two orders for Mother’s Day brunch platters. Big ones.”
She folded a dish towel with calm, focused movements.

“Wait—what orders?”

Luciane turned toward him. “I’ve started catering. Just small stuff for now. Layla helped me spread the word. I made a Facebook page.”

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

“You’ll have to either cook yourself or order in. I’m working.”

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

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

It wasn’t said in anger. Just plain truth.

Shelly didn’t say much after that.
And when the day came, the backyard still buzzed with chatter and music.
But this time, trays of supermarket food lined the tables.
Plastic cutlery. Soda bottles.

Luciane spent the day in the village hall, where she’d rented a small corner kitchen.
Her pastries, mini sandwiches, and strawberry mousse cups flew off the trays.

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

By the time she came home, the party was over.
Shelly sat on the couch, a half-empty beer in hand.
He didn’t say anything when she walked in, 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 events—birthdays, small weddings, and corporate lunches.
Her online following had grown, and clients adored her personal touch and handmade desserts.

She and Shelly still lived in the country house.
But now, she had her own studio kitchen in the garage, newly renovated and fully hers.

Their marriage? It shifted.
It had to.

They fought a little.
Then talked more.
Eventually, Shelly started helping her on weekends—washing trays, organizing ingredients.

He still hosted a small May holiday, but it was quieter.
Closer friends.
Simple food.
Sometimes he even grilled on his own.

And Luciane?

She finally enjoyed May again.
Not because of the parties.
But because she reclaimed herself.

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

The Life Lesson?

Sometimes, we give so much of ourselves 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’re allowed to say no.
We’re allowed to grow.
To change.
To dream new dreams—even if they make others uncomfortable at first.

Luciane didn’t burn bridges.
She just lit a new path.
And now she walks it—with confidence, and joy, and a heart full of flavor.

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