Chapter 2
The ceramic stew pot I'd spent over one grand on crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces.
Boiling soup splashed out in all directions.
Luckily, Lydia dodged just in time and didn't get burned.
Then, almost instinctively, I couldn't help but sigh over my poor pot.
"A friend got it specially made for me in a place famous for its ceramics. What a waste..." I said.
Before I could finish, Michael rushed into the kitchen and pulled Lydia out quickly.
He asked anxiously, "Are you okay? Did you get burned anywhere?"
Lydia, still visibly shaken, shook her head and shot me an apologetic look.
"Ms. Grant, I'm so sorry. I lost my grip and broke your pot. How much was it? Let me pay you," she said.
Before I could say a word, Michael shot me a fierce glare.
"What did you just say?" he snapped. "You're upset because your pot was custom-ordered?
"How can you be so cold? You don't even care if she's alright. You only care about that damn pot."
I looked at him, stunned.
We'd been together for three years and married for two.
He'd never spoken to me like this before. His voice was full of blame and anger, with an edge of contempt.
I took a breath to steady myself and replied calmly, "So, is she hurt?"
It was only then that Michael snapped out of it and finally let go of Lydia's wrist.
But he only grew more aggressive. "You're living in a fantasy world. You've forgotten what it even means to be decent."
With that, Michael snatched up his jacket and stormed out, forgetting about breakfast.
The door slammed shut behind him with a loud bang.
Lydia dropped her innocent act and crouched down to clean the mess, a smirk playing on her face.
"Ms. Grant, don't be mad. Your husband is just soft-hearted. He didn't mean anything by it," she said.
Her overly eager denial was way too suspicious, as if she was trying way too hard to hide something. That only made my suspicions creep up again.
I walked over and looked down at her.
"That pot cost me more than one grand. Let's just settle it with your last month's paycheck," I said coldly.
She made about 1,000 dollars a month, and today was payday.
Her face visibly darkened, and she shot me a sideways look full of annoyance.
I went on, "My kind-hearted husband doesn't appreciate it when you keep going against his wishes and cooking meals he doesn't even like.
"So from tonight on, you don't need to come over anymore."
After saying that, I headed back to the dining table and started my breakfast.
With a dismissive snort, Lydia pushed back her chair. She washed her hands at the sink, dried them, and turned as if to leave.
I turned and reminded her, "Make sure you clean up the mess you made before you go."
She pulled a face but still went back to clean up.
During the process, she banged things around, making sure I could hear just how annoyed she was.
She'd been our housekeeper for almost two years, and this was the first time I'd seen her lose her composure like this.
I took my time eating, thinking how she had finally let the mask slip.
I carefully served Michael's breakfast in fresh dishes and brought it downstairs.
Julia from next door was rummaging through old junk as usual.
When she spotted me, she beamed, her wrinkles curving into a bright smile.
She reminded me so much of my own grandma, and being around her always felt comforting.
From our few conversations, I'd gathered she was a mother, but her children had drifted apart from her. Now, she lived alone.
Whenever I could, I'd bring her something to eat or drink. Now and then, I bought her some clothes, too.
Michael just didn't get it. He kept cautioning me that helping someone desperate could backfire—that they might turn on me out of their own nature.
I never saw it that way.
For starters, I wasn't just handing out charity.
And Julia definitely wasn't someone desperate.
*****
I stayed late at work tonight, just trying to avoid all the drama at home.
When I got home, I found the dining table covered with dishes, a whole feast waiting for me.
Off to the side was a brand-new stew pot—just like the one that got broken this morning.
Michael was in the kitchen with an apron around his waist, serving up food straight from the pot.
And there it was—my absolute favorite roast chicken that was cooked just the way I liked it.
He set the food down on the table, slipped off his apron, and flashed me an apologetic smile.
"Try them. I made these dishes," he said.
"I'm sorry, babe. I shouldn't have acted like that this morning," he added.
Michael couldn't cook at all. I was pretty sure this whole table was just takeout that he'd ordered to look good.