“My Wife and Mother-in-Law’s Feast, While I Dined on Leftovers”

It was a chilly November morning when I, Aaron, finally received the call from my friend James, offering me a job at his new home services startup. Excited about the opportunity, I quickly became the go-to guy for all sorts of repairs and installations. My days were long, filled with client visits, and my hands were perpetually stained with the remnants of my labor.

My wife, Mia, and her mother, Claire, were supportive at first. They understood that starting at a new company, especially one owned by a friend, meant long hours and a lot of hard work. However, as weeks turned into months, I noticed a shift at home.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day fixing a major plumbing disaster in a downtown apartment, I returned home famished and tired. The aroma of roasted garlic and herbs hit me as I opened the door. For a fleeting moment, my fatigue washed away, replaced by anticipation of a warm, hearty meal shared with Mia and Claire.

As I hung my coat, I heard laughter from the kitchen. Mia and Claire were in the midst of preparing what looked like a feast. There was roasted chicken resting on the counter, surrounded by dishes filled with steamed vegetables, a fresh salad, and what appeared to be a homemade apple pie for dessert.

My stomach growled in response, but my heart sank as Mia turned to me with a plate not of the feast I had seen, but of cold, leftover spaghetti. “Sorry, honey, this was all I could whip up on short notice,” she said, her voice void of the usual warmth.

I tried to hide my disappointment, not wanting to cause a scene, but inside, I felt a growing resentment. Night after night, I was met with similar scenarios. Mia and Claire would cook elaborate meals for themselves, claiming they needed the good food to keep their energy up from managing the house while I was out working. Each time, I was left with leftovers or simple, hastily prepared dishes.

The breaking point came one rainy evening when I returned home earlier than usual. I walked in to find Mia and Claire toasting over glasses of wine, a freshly baked lasagna sitting between them. It was then I realized they hadn’t even bothered to prepare anything for me at all.

Feeling both betrayed and belittled, I confronted them. The conversation quickly escalated, with Claire accusing me of not appreciating the effort Mia put into maintaining the home. Mia, in tears, argued that I didn’t understand how hard it was for them when I was constantly away.

The argument ended with me spending the night in a motel, my mind racing with confusion and sorrow. The distance between Mia and me grew over the following weeks. Communication broke down, and so did our marriage. Eventually, I moved out, realizing that while I had been out repairing other people’s homes, mine had irreparably broken down.

In the end, I was left with a job that took me all over the city, a small apartment that felt nothing like home, and the painful memory of being the outsider in my own family.