When Mom tried serving leftovers, he’d toss them out, saying, “A real wife cooks daily.” I watched her spirit dim under the weight of a man who’d long forgotten what gratitude looked like. So I decided to teach him some humility.
After Dad passed six years ago, my mom, Colleen, drifted through life like a ghost. They were college sweethearts, married for 32 quiet, golden years. He brought her morning coffee and kissed her forehead before work. She folded his socks just how he liked. It wasn’t flashy—it was love.
I called her daily from two states away, but nothing could replace the emptiness of that dinner table.
“I’m fine, sweetie,” she’d say. But I could hear the ache behind her words.
Then came Raymond. He was a colleague at the community college, an accounting professor who wore too much cologne and flashed too many smiles. He brought her lunch and fixed things around the house.
At first, I was thankful someone was there when I couldn’t be.
“He makes me laugh again,” Mom said once. “You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve really laughed.”
The relationship moved fast. A quiet beach wedding with 20 guests. She wore a simple dress, and Raymond beamed in the photos. I had doubts, but I hugged them anyway.
“Take care of her,” I told him.
“Always,” he replied, patting my back too hard.
I wanted to believe him, so I ignored the red flags—how he interrupted her, how he criticized the cake. “Marriage is compromise,” she told me.
But I was wrong. So wrong.
Six months later, I arrived for a visit with fresh muffins and a week’s worth of clothes. She looked thinner, frail almost.
“You’ve lost weight,” I said.
She shrugged. “Trying to keep up with Raymond. He’s…particular.”
We were chatting over tea when she winced and rubbed her temple.
“Just a cold,” she assured me. “Raymond says it’s allergies.”
She opened the fridge and pulled out homemade lasagna.
Then Raymond walked in, flushed and gruff. “What’s for dinner?”
“Leftover lasagna,” Mom said quietly. “I don’t feel like cooking something new.”
He scowled. “Leftovers? Again?”
Before I could speak, he yanked the container from her hands and hurled it to the floor. Food splattered everywhere.
“I’ve said it a hundred times! I don’t eat the same meal twice. A real wife cooks fresh food daily. That’s your job!”
Mom dropped to her knees to clean up. “I’m sorry. I’ll make something else.”
I knelt beside her, stunned. “Mom, stop. Let me help.”
Her hands were trembling.
“This happen often?” I asked.
She said nothing. That was all I needed.
“You can help by cooking something fresh,” Raymond barked as he left for his study.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The image of Mom on the floor haunted me. Calling the police wouldn’t help. This needed something… different.
At dawn, I found Mom already mixing pancake batter.
“Let me cook today,” I said, taking the bowl from her hands.
She hesitated. “Raymond likes breakfast at seven sharp.”
“I know. I’ve got it covered.”
After she went back to bed, I got to work—cookbooks open, pans hot.
At seven, Raymond strolled in. I served him perfectly cooked eggs, crisp bacon, fresh fruit, and coffee.
“Well, look at this,” he grinned. “Colleen could learn a thing or two from you.”
I smiled. “She’s not feeling well. I wanted to help.”
For the next four days, I played chef: eggs Benedict, sushi, beef Wellington—all fresh, beautiful, and delicious.
He raved. He posted it all online.
Mom said little, but her hand would squeeze mine when he wasn’t looking.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered.
“Trust me,” I said. “I know what I’m doing.”
On the final night, I made his favorite—herb-crusted lamb. Candles. Fine china.
“To good food and family,” Raymond toasted.
“And to appreciating what we have,” I said, clinking glasses.
Halfway through, I casually said, “You know, it’s funny—how taste buds work.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve eaten the same ingredients all week—reworked, reused. That lamb? Same one from Tuesday. Potatoes? From yesterday. Carrots? From Monday.”
He froze. “No way.”
“Yep. You’ve been enjoying leftovers all week.”
He pushed his plate away. “That’s disgusting.”
“Funny. Just a minute ago, it was the best meal you’ve ever had.”
He exploded. “How dare you!”
“No, how dare you. My mom is sick, and you treat her like a servant. You throw food and demand like a child.”
“This is between me and your mother.”
“It became my business the day I saw her picking up your mess.”
I turned to Mom. “Get your coat.”
“What?”
“We’re going out. I made a reservation. And Raymond? There’s food in the fridge. Try not to throw it.”
Later, on the porch, Mom whispered, “What if I made a mistake?”
“What if you didn’t?”
She nodded slowly. “Your father would be proud of you.”
“He’d be proud of us.”
Three months later, she called. “Raymond left a voicemail. He says he’s changed. Wants to make me dinner. Begs me to stop the divorce.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I’m having lasagna tonight. Made it yesterday. Still delicious.”
“And Mom? You know what goes well with lasagna?”
She laughed. “Freedom.”