He acted as if the last night's argument had never happened. He even casually remarked, “No matter where I eat, nothing tastes quite right. My wife’s home cooking is always the best.”
I had spent hours studying recipes and practicing dishes, all in the hope of getting him to eat just a little bit more. Yet in the end, all I ever got from him was a comment about how I smelled like kitchen grease.
I did not say anything.
When he noticed the necklace in the trash, he looked irritated.
I did not know what was going on inside his head but for some reason, he managed to hold back his temper and only mocked, “Are you still mad?”
“Well, I got kicked out of my own house last night and I’m not even mad. What’s your excuse?” he asked.
I didn’t bother to correct him. It did not matter whether he had left on his own or because I had pushed him out the door to spend the night at his assistant’s house.
I simply said, “I’m not mad.”
He scoffed. “You threw away her gift and you’re still saying you’re not mad?”
He shamelessly took the last meat sandwich. He did not even care that the breakfast that I prepared was only meant for one person.