Chapter 3My Wife, the Cooking Pro

I drew up the divorce papers. It was late when I got home, but I knew Claire would be even later. After all, she had someone else to be with.

I found the old wooden box that had been gathering dust for years. Claire had told me it contained confidential work documents and that I was never to touch it. But I knew what was really inside: her journals and her Master Chef certificate.

I opened a journal. Page after page was filled with details of her five years with David, from high school through college. All the sweet nothings I'd never heard, all the romantic gestures I thought she was incapable of, had been given to another man long before she ever met me.

Claire came home late that night, calling out habitually as she walked in.

"Honey, is dinner ready?"

She searched the kitchen and the fridge but found nothing. Usually, I'd greet her with a smile. Tonight, I didn't even leave the bedroom.

She came to find me, a frown on her face. "Why didn't you cook? I came home starving, specifically to eat with you."

I kept scrolling on my phone, not looking up. "I'm tired. If you're hungry, make something yourself."

Her face flushed with anger, her voice rising. "You know I can't cook!"

"Oh," I said flatly. "Then I guess you'll go hungry. I'm going to sleep."

Sensing my unusual coldness, her tone softened. She came and sat on the bed, trying to coax me. "How about you just make a bowl of noodles? Please? I worked late, and I'm so hungry. Don't you feel bad for me?"

With all emotion stripped away, I looked up at the face I had slept next to for three years and felt like I was looking at a stranger. I had just gotten back from a business trip myself. Had she shown an ounce of concern for me?

A Master Chef who had pretended to be a kitchen klutz for five years. She had watched me toil day in and day out, getting up to cook for her whether I was sick or exhausted, all so she could keep a promise to the one that got away.

I couldn't take it anymore. My face hardened.

"I said I'm tired. I'm not cooking. Get out and let me sleep."

Just then, her stomach growled loudly. That was the last straw for her. "What the hell is wrong with you tonight? Fine, don't cook! I'll go eat out!"

She slammed the door on her way out.

She didn't come back that night.

I no longer cared where she went or what she ate. I just had a good, long sleep.

The next day, I met with my lawyer and settled the divorce arrangements. Then, I went to an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet by myself.

For years, to accommodate Claire, I couldn't eat seafood, cilantro, mangoes, or eggs. Everything she disliked had vanished from my life.

But now I was discovering that satisfying my own stomach was far more important than pleasing a woman.

Halfway through my meal, a message popped up on my phone.

It was Claire.

"It's our anniversary today. Since you don't feel like cooking, let's go out to a nice restaurant."

In previous years, I was always the one who excitedly brought up our anniversary. I'd take a half-day off work and cook a huge feast, just to make it special. And she, the woman who never cooked, would always find something to criticize, all under the guise of "improving my skills" and "enhancing our marital happiness."

A second message followed immediately.

"Did you go see David yesterday?"

"He's just a tenant. Please don't bother him."

It clicked. So that's why she suddenly remembered our anniversary. She was afraid I'd disturb her precious first love.

I laughed out loud and typed back, "Don't worry, I won't bother him."

After all, I was about to leave her.

After I finished eating, I called her.

"Claire, let's not go out tonight. Come home. I'll cook."

This would be our last meal together.

When I first pursued her, I won her over with a meal. Now, I would end it with one.

A fitting end to a beginning.