My stepdad expected a 1950s-style fresh supper every day. He dumped leftover food when my mom tried to reheat it, saying real wives cook daily. I saw her shrink under the man who left appreciation behind. I showed him humility.
After Dad died six years ago, my mom, Colleen, lived like a ghost. They were college sweethearts wedded for 32 golden years with a love that doesn’t need spotlights. He kissed her temple and brought her coffee every morning before work. She’d pair and roll his socks his way, never bunched.
I contacted her daily from two states away, yet they couldn’t fill her dinner table seat.
“I’m fine, sweetie,” she said, but her voice was hollow.
Raymond followed. He and Mom worked at the community college. Accounting professor with slicked-back hair and cologne you could smell before entering. He brought her lunch and offered house repairs.
I was glad someone checked on her when I couldn’t.
Mom said, “He makes me laugh again, Matty,” over the phone. “Do you know how long it’s been since I really laughed?”
Raymond stuck around and won her heart. The proposal and wedding were quick. An intimate 20-person beach ceremony with sand between toes. It looked great on photos.
Mom wore a plain white dress, and Raymond smiled. Despite my worries, I hugged them.
“Take care of her,” I said.
He promised, “Always,” rubbing my back too hard. “Your mom deserves the world.”
To believe him. Maybe that’s why I overlooked his reception interruptions and cake complaints.
“Marriage is about compromise,” Mom said later. “We’re both adjusting.”
I was thrilled she found someone again. A reliable person. She was liked. But God, I was so awfully wrong.
I arrived six months later with a tray of fresh muffins and enough clothes for a week. Mum hugged me tightly, smaller than I remembered.
“You’ve lost weight,” I replied, examining her face.
She dismissed me. “Trying to match Raymond. He’s picky about his food.”
We had tea in the kitchen. Mom placed her fingers to her temple while telling me about her garden.
“Mom, are you alright?”
“Just a little headache, dear,” she grumbled. I’ve had a cold for a week. No big deal.”
She was pale and her eyes were shadowed. Not just a cold.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Raymond blames allergies. I’ll be well after resting.” She got up and opened the fridge. I made lasagna yesterday. Your grandma’s recipe is great.”
Raymond entered as she removed the container. He wore a golf shirt and was flushed from being outside.
“What’s for dinner?” he inquired without greeting me.
I thought we’d have leftover lasagna. Tonight I’m not feeling creative.”
Ray’s face darkened. “Leftovers? Again?”
Still good, Ray. I lack energy—”
Crash made me jump. Her container fell to the floor when Raymond grabbed it. Pasta, sauce, and cheese covered the tile.
“I’ve told you 100 times. I don’t repeat meals. Am I human or pig? A real wife cooks fresh food for her spouse daily. It’s your job. Is that so confusing?”
On her knees, Mom cleaned up the mess. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll make something else.”
I froze. In the six years since Dad died, I worried about Mom’s loneliness and sadness, but not THIS. Never fear. Never managed.
I sank beside her. “Stop, Mom. Let me assist.”
I saw her shaking hands up close. “Does this happen often?”
Her quiet told me everything.
Raymond added, “You can help by making something fresh, Matilda,” leaving. “I’ll be in my study.”
***
Staring at the guest room ceiling fan kept me awake that night. The image of Mom kneeling repeated. I considered phoning the police, but what would I say? My stepdad broke a dish? My mother cried?
No. This needed something else.
Mom was preparing pancake batter at daybreak.
“Let me cook today,” I took her bowl.
She appeared relieved. Are you sure, honey? Raymond enjoys breakfast at 7am.”
I’m sure. Please rest—your cold sounds worse.”
She paused before nodding. Eggs over medium please him. nor too liquid, nor too solid.”
I got it. Why not rest in bed?”
I started working with every cookbook in her cabinet after she went.
Raymond walked down at seven with a newspaper. I served golden pancakes, freshly cooked eggs, crisp bacon, fresh fruit, and steaming coffee, and he raised an eyebrow.
He took his seat and exclaimed, “Well, look at this!” “Colleen could learn a thing or two from you.”
Forced a smile. Not feeling well, mom. I wanted to help while here.”
He ate the pancake and nodded. “Now this is how a man should be treated in his own home.”
I bit my tongue hard and winced through the copper tang.
The meals will be on me while visiting. Mom must relax.”
“Best idea I’ve heard all week.” His fork was directed at me. “Your generation could use more women like you… ones who understand the kind of fresh food men really need.”
Watching him eat, I planned my next move.
I was a one-woman restaurant for four days. Breakfast Eggs Benedict, lunch hand-rolled sushi, and supper Beef Wellington. Every dish was homemade, plated like art, and served with a smile that made my cheeks hurt.
“This is incredible,” Raymond repeated. “I should have you visit more often.”
His Instagram buddies received images of every meal by day three. “This is what real home cooking looks like, man! 🥩🍗🥘😋” he said.
Mom observed with knowing eyes, saying little but squeezing my hand when Raymond wasn’t looking.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered day four.
Mom, trust me. I know my job.”
That night, I made his favorite—herb-crusted lamb with rosemary potatoes and glazed carrots. The table had candles and Mom’s best china.
“To good food and family,” Raymond raised his wine glass.
Clinked mine against his. “And to appreciating what we have!”
I said, “You know, it’s interesting how our taste buds work.” midway through his dinner.
He asked, “How’s that?” with lamb in his mouth.
“Well, for instance, you’ve been eating variations of the same three meals all week, but because I presented them differently, you never noticed.”
The fork froze midway to his mouth. “What are you talking about?”
“That lamb? The identical one I made two days ago. I recut and added sauce.”
His face reddened. “No, it isn’t.”
Leftover potatoes from yesterday. The carrots? These are from Monday’s beef dish. I recycled ingredients all week, and you loved every bite.”
Ray pushed his plate away. “That’s disgusting.”
“Is it? Five minutes before, it was ‘the best meal you’ve ever tasted.’ You even uploaded it.”
Mom watched calmly from the doorway.
“You served me… leftovers??”
Raymond, leftovers aren’t lazy. They emphasize planning, efficiency, and food conservation, which my father understood well.”
Raymond’s face turned a scary purple. “How dare you trick me like this!”
My mother is sick—how dare you treat her like a chef? You broke dishes and demanded like a child!”
“This is between me and your mother.”
“It became my business when I saw her picking up broken dishes off the floor.” I faced Mom. “Get your coat.”
“What?” Raymond echoed Mom.
Antonio’s received my reservation. Original, not leftover.” Smiled at Mom. You and I are going out. Raymond can cook for himself.”
Open-eyed, Mom gazed between us.
I said, “Go,” gently. “Wait in the car.”
I leaned across the table after she departed. “My mother was with a man who admired her for 32 years. She’s worth it now.”
Raymond’s nostrils flared. “You have no idea what marriage is about.”
“I know it’s not about fear.” My posture improved. Food is plentiful in the fridge. Avoid throwing it on the floor while we’re away.”
Mom was silent until our pasta arrived at the restaurant.
“I should have said something sooner,” she muttered. After your father, I felt lonely. Raymond started off nice.”
“This isn’t your fault,” I took her hand across the table. “But it needs to end.”
Her tear fell. My age is 62. I never expected to start over.”
“You don’t heal in the same place that’s breaking you, Mom.”
I want to be brave again, sweetheart. Used to be fearless.”
“You remain. You temporarily forgot.”
I stayed another week to help Mom pack Raymond’s belongings while he worked. We changed the locks and stored his stuff in the garage.
When he returned home and found his key was broken, he beat on the door till the neighbors peeked out.
He cried, “This is my house!” through the door.
Mom stood shaking but determined in the hallway. Unfortunately, this is my late husband’s house. You can say what you need to tomorrow when you pick up your things. Please leave now.”
At night, once the shouting ceased and the house was silent, we sat on the porch swing like when I was little.
“What if I made a mistake?” Mom inquired softly.
“What if you didn’t?”
She contemplated that. “Your father would be proud of you.”
“He’d be proud of both of us.”
***
Mom contacted me Sunday night three months later.
I received a voicemail from Raymond. He’s offering to prepare me dinner. Reportedly changed. He begs me to cancel the divorce.”
“What did you say?”
“I informed him of my plans. Having lasagna tonight. I made it yesterday. And tasty!”
“And Mom? What complements lasagna? Freedom! A kitchen without plate-throwing!”
She laughed like wind chimes.
Entitlement consumes itself. Raymond and others assume they deserve service but forget love is never deserved. It’s earned. When you make kindness a chore, someone delivers you penalties and get out.
Another story: I believed we were finally connecting when my stepmom made me her maid of honor. After the vows, she handed me a bill without realizing my dad was behind her.
Inspired by true events and people, this work is fictionalized for creativity. To preserve privacy and enrich the story, names, characters, and facts were changed. Any resemblance to real people, events, or places is unintentional.
The author and publisher neither guarantee event authenticity nor character characterization and are not liable for misinterpretation. While this work is presented “as is,” the characters’ viewpoints do not reflect those of the author or publisher.
