Every year, Nina works hard to plan the perfect Fourth of July celebration, only to be obscured. Nina works hard every year to plan the perfect Fourth of July event, but her husband gets all the attention. When one thoughtless moment causes mayhem, the truth ignites. This year, more than fireworks will burst.
My husband’s family gathers at our home every Fourth of July. Ethan claims we host it, but we merely share the RSVP last name.
I do everything. I cook, clean, and decorate indoors and out. I strip beds and wash guest towels with fabric softener for luxury. I straighten linen tablecloths till they’re stiffer than my forced smile and shop for groceries like a battalion.
Ethan?
He dislikes crowded stores. He hates bleach odor. He hates “fussing over unnecessary details.”
But he loves immaculate parties.
“This year’s different, Nina,” he stated in June, beaming like a child at Christmas. Garvin is coming!
His older brother Gavin, the golden child who left and never looked back, prospered in tech.
Let’s go big this year! Make the yard stunning. Avoid cheap decorations. Make that sangria you make so well—Gavin will go crazy.”
As I sliced apples into beautiful stars for sangria, I nodded. I wondered what would happen if I skipped this year.
Will Ethan call a caterer? Might he dust outdoor lights? Could he remember to get chairs or ice?
No. He’d panic. He would then blame me.
I did what I always do. I prepared too much because no one else would. Because “plastic looks cheap,” Ethan said, I hand-painted banners, draped paper lanterns until my shoulders screamed, and bought biodegradable plates and real forks.
I wrapped napkin bundles with rosemary sprigs and thread to show my attention. To seem crisp in photos, I cleaned and ironed his old flag-themed apron twice.
Ethan did what?
Created ribs.
Two racks. End of story. He strutted like he created barbecue after marinating them the night before.
The ribs soaked quietly in a plastic bag on the fridge’s bottom shelf, with my pies, macaroni salad, garlic bread, homemade coleslaw, sausage rolls, chicken, and more.
On party day, everything gleamed. The yard was movie-like. The sangria was cold and very golden. I even had jazz playing gently from speakers concealed behind potted plants, but I knew the teens’ pop music would end it.
The parents, cousins, distant relatives, and kids running around joined Ethan. Gavin and Lana appeared like magazine covers. Ethan almost shone at them.
They applauded everything honestly.
“This looks just like ‘Southern Living,’ Nina!” Lana leaned in warmly.
I exhaled and grinned. I felt seen briefly.
Then Ethan clinked his glass.
Happy you made it! The ribs are what keep people coming back every year, so hope you’re enjoying them!
The terrace was full of polite laughter. I tilted my head, imagining his anxiety.
With her side dishes, Nina sets the stage, but the ribs? They lead the show.”
He winked. Everyone laughed raucously.
I broke inside.
I developed a silent, deep crack like glass poised to split. I smiled a fake, artificial smile and gently left to avoid disturbing the celebration.
I float down the hall, into the bathroom, and locked it. I cried on the closed toilet lid.
Not crying like in a movie. You shed sharp, silent tears when you’ve learnt to stay small and collected no matter how hard you’re shattering.
My face was on a steam-ironed embroidered hand towel from the night before. I understood the irony: even my mourning had to be organized.
Not just hurt. Feeling erased. My hard work and dedication vanished with a jest and wink. I adjusted props backstage to help Ethan shine, not as his collaborator.
Worst part? I allowed this.
I examined my reflection in the mirror. “You’re not going to ruin this day, Nina,” I said. “Smile and persevere. Like always.”
Fate had other ideas.
Silence turned into commotion three or four minutes later. Shouting. Pounding footsteps. Ethan’s voice cutting.
“Fire! FIRE!”
I ran to the backyard and froze at the door.
Fire consumed the grill. Shadows danced across the yard as six-foot flames snapped at the patio roof. Thick, violent smoke waves rose into the sky like a dark hurricane.
Visitors screamed. Chairs fell. Children screamed. A fleeing person dumped a pitcher of lemonade.
Ethan struggled with the yard hose, red-faced and agitated. My neatly cleansed and pressed apron? Fired up.
That plastic side table? Dripped and sagged.
He kept squirting lighter fluid onto blazing coals to reheat a second rack of ribs. Heat burst closed the top, grease caught instantaneously, and flames erupted violently.
Fire raged to the patio tarp, almost reaching the new umbrella.
Gavin? He filmed everything. He was getting casual “hello” shots from visitors when it went up. His horrified words rang through the yard.
Putting it out took an hour. After soaking the grill and scraping the burnt ribs, Ethan and his dad sprinkled the tarp. Ethan’s treasured ribs? Become black goo.
Tablecloths too. Melted, discolored.
What did everyone eat?
My sangria. My pies. Homemade spaghetti salad with basil from my window box. My chicken. I roll sausage. I mashed potatoes. My sweets.
Nobody mentioned those ribs again. It wasn’t necessary.
Guests started finding me to say goodbye and thank me. I nearly fainted from Ethan’s cousin’s hug.
I don’t understand Nina’s method. You’re a magician, she whispered.
Still reeling from the pandemonium, I nodded.
Lana approached me at the dessert table while I restocked the fruit dish. Leaning near, she spoke softly.
“He’s lucky to have you,” she remarked.
My throat tightened as I grinned. “Yes, but luck can run out,” I said with a sense of sadness.
Lana stared at me before softly touching my elbow.
“Come with me for a minute?” she said. „Let them lick their wounds outside.”
She led me into my study, which Ethan never entered. The bookshelves were warm and honey-colored from sunlight. Sitting across from each other, knees practically touching.
“This house is beautiful,” she said. “But the warmth? That’s you. All of it. Food, affection, and simple touches aren’t Ethan. That’s you.”
I was silent at first. I was unfamiliar with being viewed without strings.
“I love Gavin,” she sighed. “What if he stood up in front of everyone and dismissed me like Ethan did to you? I would have thrown him on fire. Next to the ribs.”
A laugh. Laughing so hard that I felt like something had broken inside me.
“Nina,” she said forcefully, bending forward. Do not owe him your invisibility. You don’t have to be the silent magician behind the curtain soaking up the applause.”
Tears sting. Swallowing hard, my hands trembled.
“You’re not crazy for feeling this. Your sensitivity is low. You just woke up. Other folks may have woken up today.
I nodded softly, glad for her comments.
“Thank you,” I whispered. It means more than I can say.”
My hand was squeezed. “Come back out when you’re ready,” she said kindly. “I’ll stop the chatter.”
When I returned to the yard, Ethan was slumped on the porch steps, drink in hand, staring at the barbecue debris. His apron was twisted and melting beside him.
“I can’t believe the grill did that to me,” he mumbled, eyes unfocused.
I drank sangria while staring at the scorched metal.
“Maybe the grill just wanted some credit, Ethan,” I whispered.
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t say sorry. No way that night. Not after spending hours alone cleaning up the scorched remains the next day. Air smelt like an old bonfire. Chairs bubbled and distorted, tarp damaged. Ethan played video games in the den as if nothing had happened.
He asked a week later, going through his phone.
Think we should avoid hosting next year? My folks could do it.”
I looked up from my book. I felt serene and solid.
“Yes,” I answered. First time in almost a decade, I meant it.
This year? Lake fireworks are on my agenda. Just me. I’ll bring a foldable chair, sangria mason jug, and maybe pie or brownies if I’m generous. I’ll wear something light, let the wind tangle my hair, and delight when the sky sparkles.
I’ll sit quietly after the last explosion and the smoke drifts across the ocean, knowing one thing:
I didn’t burn myself to shine for someone else this time.