Chapter 1

James Evans, my own husband, kept stealing the dinners I cooked. He was using me as free help.

When our son Luke Evans learned the truth, he joined the deception and called me petty and paranoid.

United against me, they thought I was blind to their scheme.

I observed them coldly, resolved to cut them out of my life.

*****

The second James walked in, he had Luke wash his dirty lunchbox.

Luke was a high school senior buried under homework and exam prep.

I got pissed, glaring at James sprawled on the couch. "Are you serious? You can't even wash your own lunchbox?"

James didn't say a word. Luke just smiled as he picked up the box. "It's fine, Mom. Dad's been working all day, so of course I'll wash it."

Luke turned on the tap, only to gasp as the cold water hit him.

Seeing his red hands, I sighed, "Just go do your homework. I'll take care of it."

Luke just said thanks and left.

I tossed the lunchbox in the sink. As I reached for the tap, something caught my eye—a red smear on the spoon.

Bright lipstick on white ceramic. When I rubbed it with my finger, the color came right off.

Any woman would recognize that instantly, and I sure as hell did.

For years, James had complained my cooking was too bland. Lately though, he'd been asking for healthier, lighter meals—all packed up for work.

His sudden change in taste? Something was definitely up.

Just thinking about how he'd been bossing me around like hired help made my blood boil.

"Mom, is dinner ready yet? I'm starving!" Luke's voice jolted me back.

I looked down at the spoon and pulled out my phone to snap a few pictures.

I knew James way too well—if I kicked up a fuss now, it'd be pointless. He'd have a dozen excuses lined up.

What I needed was proof he couldn't talk his way out of.

The moment dinner hit the table, James grabbed his lunchbox and started hoarding everything in sight. He poured away most of the soup, scooped up some vegetables, and didn't waste any time going after the steamed cod.

The fish wasn't even that big, but he cherry-picked only the best pieces.

Any other day, I would've raised holy hell. Today I just watched with this stone-cold calm.

Luke shot me a quick look—he liked that cod.

Whenever James shamelessly tried to grab all the good stuff, I'd usually lose my temper. But Luke would always jump to his defense. "Come on, Mom, Dad works so hard every day. Just let him eat more."

Right, like I didn't have a job. Like busting my ass daily didn't count just because I wasn't James.

Whenever I lost my cool over him being lazy or selfish, Luke would defend him—exactly like his grandma always did.

Go ahead, keep playing the loving father and son. I guessed I was the villain here.

So today I just didn't give a damn—not even in the mood.

James wasn't stupid—he could tell something was off when I kept quiet. Trying to smooth things over, he quickly grabbed a couple pieces of fish and dropped them into Luke's bowl.

"Here you go, Luke. Eat up and ace your SATs for your mom."

I snorted. "For me? He's not taking those tests for me—this is his own future."

James tutted, looking annoyed. "I was just trying to appreciate your effort. What's gotten into you today?"

I couldn't be bothered to argue. My eyes just went to his packed lunchbox.

Three layers—one packed with soup and chicken, one crammed with cod, one stacked with pies.

The scraps left over—all the prime cuts, naturally—ended up in Luke's bowl.

After hours slaving in the kitchen, all I had was some salad.

Even most of that James had already swiped.

How ironic.

I barely tasted a thing while James and Luke chatted away like everything was normal.

They seemed to share some secret, playing their little games right in front of me. Before, even knowing they'd always shut me out, I'd still ask what they were whispering about.

Today though, I was too wiped out to care or even swallow.

I only managed some soup. Yet nobody noticed.

When dinner ended, they both got up and wandered off.

When I didn't immediately clean the table as I always did, James was up to his usual trick. "Luke, go do the dishes."

Luke dutifully collected the dishes and headed to the kitchen. Turning on the water, he yelped, "That's freezing!"

This time I didn't step in to rescue him.

He washed a few dishes, then came out complaining, "Mom, that water's cold, and I've got so much homework tonight..."

"I didn't tell you to do it," I said, meeting his eyes. "I wash dishes every day, and the water's just as cold for me."

Luke opened his mouth, then just reluctantly dragged himself back to the kitchen.

James was still sprawled on the couch. "Who pissed you off today? Leave that attitude at the door. Luke's done nothing wrong."

As I looked at him lying there, disgust washed over me from the inside out.

That feeling had been there for years—every time I saw how lazy, selfish, and two-faced he was, my stomach would turn.

But before, I'd always swallowed it down.

Everyone said the same things. "That's just how it is." "It's nothing." "All men act this way." "Just suck it up." So I kept choking it down.

But all that disgust, repressed by suffocating rules and contained for so long, burst out today.

Staring at James, I actually gagged at his face.

He frowned. "Are you alright?"

I stood up and grabbed the trash bag. "Just the stink in here making me sick. I'm taking out the trash."

James grumbled, "At this hour?"

Of course he didn't offer to do it—or to come along either.

I quietly let out a breath of relief.