Every Fourth of July, our house hosts Joel’s family celebration. He calls it “our party,” but I do everything—cooking, decorating, cleaning, prepping for guests. Joel just makes ribs and basks in the praise. This year, he was especially excited. His brother Miles was coming after five years. “Let’s go all out,” he said. So I did—again.

I hung lanterns, hand-painted banners, and made sangria with star-shaped apple slices. I even ironed his ridiculous flag apron. The day was perfect. Guests arrived, praising the setup. Rhea, Miles’s wife, told me it looked like something out of a magazine. But then Joel raised his glass: “Lee sets the scene, but the ribs are the real star.” Everyone laughed. I didn’t. I walked away quietly and cried in the bathroom, pressing my face into the towel I’d just steam-ironed the night before.

Minutes later, chaos erupted. Joel had doused the grill with lighter fluid and started a fire that nearly took out our patio. Guests screamed, chairs toppled, kids cried. Joel stood there, red-faced and fumbling with the hose. His apron caught fire. The ribs were ruined. So was his spotlight.

But the food people actually ate? My pies. My pasta salad. My grilled chicken. People found me after the fire—not just to say goodbye, but to thank me, genuinely. Rhea pulled me aside, saying, “You don’t owe him your invisibility.” Her words sat heavy in my chest. They were the truth.

So next year? No party. No pretending. Just fireworks by the lake. Just me. And peace.