When I asked, she smiled and said she was just adjusting to Raymond’s particular eating habits. That evening, she offered to reheat some lasagna, her voice hoarse from what she said was a lingering cold. Raymond came in and, without much conversation, asked what was for dinner. When he heard it was leftovers, he frowned deeply and pushed the container aside, clearly unhappy.
“I’ve mentioned before,” he said flatly. “I prefer a fresh meal every night.”
She knelt to clean the mess without protest. “I’ll make something else,” she said softly.
I helped her clean and gently asked if this kind of thing happened often. She didn’t answer—just gave me a small, tired smile. Raymond left the room, casually suggesting I take over dinner prep if I wanted to be helpful.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. This wasn’t about food. It was about how much my mom had dimmed around someone who didn’t see her light.
So the next day, I took over the kitchen. I told her to rest, and she agreed—quietly, but with a visible sense of relief.
For four days, I cooked up a storm—pancakes, sushi, risotto, lamb. Every dish was restaurant-quality, every meal met with praise. Raymond even took photos to share with friends, proud of the “home-cooked meals” he was enjoying. My mom would quietly squeeze my hand under the table.
On the fifth night, I made his favorite lamb dish again—complete with wine and candles. He complimented the flavor, delighted with the effort. That’s when I gently mentioned it was actually the same lamb from two nights earlier, just presented differently.
His face changed. “Really?”
I nodded. “Same main, just a new sauce and side.”
He was surprised, but I smiled. “It just goes to show—it’s not always about something new. Sometimes love is about appreciation.”
My mom stood nearby, watching quietly. I turned to her. “Let’s go out tomorrow—just the two of us. You deserve a break.”
She looked at me with grateful eyes and nodded. No arguments, no hesitation. Just the start of something better.