Part 1Revenge Through My Cooking

They all say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

For thirty years, I believed them.

Every single day, I’d craft new dishes for my husband, David. His stomach was weak, so I was careful with every pinch of salt.

Then came the storm. I saw him with my own eyes, his arm wrapped around his old flame, Linda, in a cheap diner, the two of them lovingly sharing a single ice cream cone.

I returned home, soaked to the bone, only to stumble upon his hidden medical report: stomach cancer.

So, not only had he betrayed me, but he was also planning to let me wither away by his side, none the wiser, so he could cash in my life insurance and run off with her.

The worst part? The absolute joke of it all? He had the audacity to ask Linda to learn my recipes, to “take over for me” when I was gone.

Fine. If he wanted to eat from two kitchens, I’d be more than happy to plan his menu.

If Linda made him crab, I’d serve a rich tomato stew. If she seared him lamb chops, I’d prepare a refreshing watermelon salad.

Let’s just see how long his broken body could take it.

* * *

After I retired, I started posting videos of my cooking online. My followers always said a talent like mine shouldn't be confined to a home kitchen.

Last month, someone recommended an international culinary competition.

All expenses paid, a trip around the world, a huge cash prize for the winner, and even funding to open your own restaurant.

It was an incredible offer, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn't tempted.

But my hand hovered over the application page for what felt like an eternity. I just couldn't bring myself to click.

My husband, David, had a terribly weak stomach. He needed constant, meticulous care.

For thirty years, my carefully prepared meals were the only thing keeping him going. Without me, he wouldn't have made it this long.

I treated him like a king, but he treated me like the hired help.

If a dish was too salty or too bland, if the porridge was too thick or too thin, he’d throw his chopsticks down and demand I remake it.

For his health, I endured it. For thirty years.

This morning, he surprised me by asking me to buy a chicken to make a broth. A warmth spread through my chest. He never liked chicken soup—but I loved it. And today was my birthday.

But just as I bought the chicken, the sky opened up in a torrential downpour. I quickly called him, but he just screamed at me.

"You idiot! Can't you do one simple thing right?"

He hung up. The little warmth I’d felt was instantly extinguished.

I ran home through the rain, but my feet froze when I saw the diner downstairs.

There was David, huddled under a single umbrella with his old flame, Linda, the two of them cooing as they shared an ice cream cone.

David wrapped his arm around her. "I had the old woman make you some chicken soup. I'll bring it over tonight to help you warm up."

Linda pouted playfully. "Who wants chicken soup? I want soda and ice cream. I want to be your sweet little baby."

"Of course," he cooed back. "You'll always be my sweet little baby."

I stood there in the pouring rain, smelling the stale cooking oil on my clothes and looking at the blisters on my hands. In that moment, I finally understood just how foolish I’d been for thirty years.

When I got home, I was soaked through, but I didn't bother changing. I went straight to the bedroom and started packing.

The competition organizers had said there was a flight tonight.

Just then, David walked in.

As always, his first words to me were, "Hurry up and make dinner."

I ignored him, continuing to pack my suitcase.

When he saw I wasn't moving, his voice rose. "Are you deaf? I'm talking to you! Did you get the chicken? Get in there and make the soup!"

I zipped my suitcase shut and finally looked up at him. "I'm leaving. The house is all yours."

He stared at me for a second, then his face twisted in anger.

"What's gotten into you? So I didn't pick you up in the rain, and now you're throwing a fit? I was busy helping a friend!"