I asked gently, “Does this happen a lot?”
She said nothing. Her silence was answer enough.
The next morning, I cooked breakfast exactly how he liked it. For four days, I served gourmet meals. He ate like a king, bragged online, and called Mom lazy in the same breath.
Then came the final test.
I served his favorite rosemary lamb again—with a twist.
“To good food,” he said smugly.
I smiled. “You’ve been eating leftovers all week. Just dressed up differently.”
His face dropped. “You tricked me.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t hate leftovers. You hate not being in control.”
Mom stepped forward. “And this house? It’s mine. My late husband left it to me.”
We left him standing in his arrogance.
That night, over pasta at a cozy restaurant, Mom whispered, “I thought I couldn’t start over again.”
“You’re not starting over,” I told her. “You’re just finally choosing you.”
Three months later, she called, laughing. Raymond had tried to win her back—with dinner.
“I told him I already made lasagna,” she said, “and yes—it was the same one from yesterday. Still delicious.”
Sometimes healing starts with a plate of leftovers—and the strength to say, “Enough.”