Chapter 1
I had never eaten anything my husband cooked.
For five years of marriage, he woke up an hour early every morning and spent his time in the kitchen.
Fried eggs. Toast. Oatmeal. Fresh fruit.
The smell would fill the entire house.
Once, I asked him, "Could you make me a plate, too?"
He simply said, "Don't you have a cafeteria at work?"
Later, I stopped asking.
Then one day, I found a lunchbox in his car.
It was empty.
A sticky note was attached to the lid. The delicate handwriting read: [The chicken was so good today. I want barbecue ribs tomorrow.]
That handwriting wasn't mine.
*****
I stared at that sticky note for a long time.
At the words: [I want barbecue ribs tomorrow.]
The handwriting was playful, like a girl used to being pampered.
I flipped the note over, and saw another line on the back: [David Carter is the best!]
David Carter was my husband's name.
I put the lunchbox back where I found it and closed the car door.
That night, I didn't bring it up.
David came home a bit later than usual, carrying a bag of ribs.
"I'll make barbecue ribs tomorrow," he said.
"Who are you making them for?" I asked.
"A colleague," he replied without looking up at me. "There's a girl at work who's frail, so I thought I'd bring her some."
"Just like that?"
"Yeah."
He grabbed the barbecue sauce from the fridge and started prepping the ribs.
He moved with practiced ease, like he'd done this a hundred times before.
I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching his back.
Five years.
In all that time, I'd never seen him put so much care into a single dish.
"What do you want for dinner?" he suddenly asked.
"Huh?" I asked.
"Dinner. Should I order takeout?"
I paused for a second, then smiled. "Whatever, you pick."
"How about roasted chicken from our usual spot?"
"Sure."
He grabbed his phone and placed the order.
The ribs soaked in the pot, filling the kitchen with their rich aroma.
The roasted chicken order showed 'estimated delivery in 30 minutes' on his phone.
This was how we live.
He cooked for her, she ate it.
He ordered takeout, I ate it.
I didn't know how long it had been like this, but from that day on, I started paying attention.
The next morning, he got up at 5:30.
I pretended to be asleep, listening to him bustling around in the kitchen.
Then came the sounds of chopping, the sizzle of the frying pan, the hum of the microwave.
At 6:15, he slipped out quietly.
I waited five minutes, then got up and went to the kitchen.
The stove was spotless.
The barbecue ribs in the fridge had disappeared.
The trash can was filled with eggshells, chopped scallions, and an empty condiment bottle.
I opened his spare lunchbox cabinet, the one his mom gave us when we got married, which I'd never seen him use.
One was missing.
I understood now.
That lunchbox left the house every morning at 6:15 and returned before 8 PM.
It was filled with food my husband made himself.
It ended up with that "frail" girl at his office.
I dialed up Chloe Hutchins, my best friend.
"Can you check on someone for me?" I said. "She's from David's company, and she's frail."
Chloe went quiet for a few seconds. "So you found out?"
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. I'll check it out for you."
That night, she sent me the information.
Emily Summers, 28, went to college with David.
They were together in college, but broke up later.
Three years ago, Emily joined David's company and worked in the same department.
The woman in the photo was skinny and had long hair. She looked so delicate.
I zoomed in and saw her social media accounts.
On one of them, she had posted: [It's so nice to have someone cook for me.]
It was posted two days ago.
I scrolled through her posts.
There were lots of food photos.
Chicken legs, barbecue ribs, glazed pork tenderloin, scrambled eggs, mushroom soup.
Every dish was in the familiar lunchbox.
I scrolled back further.
The posts went back one... two... three years ago.
Three years.
Three whole years.
My husband has been cooking for her for that long.
And I'd been eating takeout for that same time too.
I put down my phone.
My hands were shaking a little.
It wasn't from anger but from cold.
It was like someone had poured ice water down my spine, chilling me to the soles of my feet.
That night, David came home early.
"Why are you home so early today?" I asked.
"Nothing, just wanted to come home and spend time with you," he said.
He walked over, wanting to hug me.
I dodged to the side.
"I'm going to take a shower," I said.
I stood under the shower, hot water poured over me.
I started to recall.
Did he ever cook for me in these five years?
Yes, he did a few times in the first year of marriage.
Then he stopped.
I asked him why.
He said, "You're not picky, just eat whatever."
I believed him.
I thought he was being lazy.
I thought he couldn't cook.
I thought...
It seemed I didn't know anything.