My Wife and Mother-in-Law’s Feast, While I Dined on Leftovers: The Cost of Being the Handyman

The smell of roasted chicken hit me as soon as I opened the door, richer and more inviting than anything I’d tasted in months. The laughter from the kitchen was sharp, each burst like a slap in the face. I set my tool bag down, the canvas sticky with a day’s worth of sweat and drywall dust, and stood in the entryway, listening.

“You really outdid yourself tonight, Mom,” my wife, Emily, gushed, her voice warm and carefree. “Maybe we should have you cook every Sunday.”

I cleared my throat, trying to announce my presence. The laughter stopped, only for a moment. Emily peered around the corner, her hair tied up, cheeks flushed from the heat of the oven. “Hey, Jake, you’re home late. There’s food in the fridge. Just heat it up.”

I nodded—what else could I do? I walked through the kitchen, past my wife and her mother, Linda, who was ladling gravy onto a mountain of mashed potatoes. The table was set for two. Silverware gleamed. There was wine, candles, and a bowl of salad that still glistened with freshly tossed vinaigrette. None of it for me.

“Long day?” Linda asked, her tone polite but distant.

“Yeah, Mrs. Baker’s garbage disposal again. She always thinks it’s my fault when it jams.” I tried a smile. It didn’t land.

Emily barely looked at me. “Don’t let it bother you. You’re good at fixing things.”

I went to the fridge, pretending not to notice their plates piled high. Inside was a Tupperware of cold spaghetti—my dinner. I microwaved it, the plastic lid popping and hissing, drowning out their soft conversation. I sat alone at the breakfast bar, watching the rotating plate count down the seconds. My stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from something harder to name.

The three of us used to eat together every Sunday, before Emily lost her job and Linda moved in “temporarily.” Back then, I was just Jake, the guy who could fix a leaky faucet and still make Emily laugh over burnt takeout. Now, I was Jake the handyman, always one missed invoice away from getting my truck repossessed.

I stared into the microwave’s dirty glass, watching my reflection warp and stretch. Linda’s voice floated over. “You know, Emily, you could always ask your cousin at the law firm for a job. She owes you after last Christmas.”

“Maybe,” Emily said, but I could hear the hesitation. “I don’t want to work for family.”

I wanted to say something—remind her that I worked for my friend, Brad, at the startup, and every day I fixed things for people who barely saw me as human. That I came home with busted knuckles and a sore back, so we could keep the lights on. But I swallowed it. Who was I to complain? At least I had work.

After dinner, I washed the dishes while Linda and Emily watched a Netflix show in the living room. The sink was filled with grease and chicken bones. I scrubbed hard, the water running hot over my hands, wishing I could wash away the bitterness too. I heard them laugh, a private joke I wasn’t part of.

Later that night, as Emily folded laundry, I finally asked, “Do you ever wish things were different?”

She looked at me, tired. “Of course I do. But wishing doesn’t fix anything, Jake.”

“No,” I said, “but maybe talking would.”

She sighed. “It’s just… Mom is struggling, I’m struggling, and you’re barely home. It’s like we’re all in different worlds.”

“I’m doing this for us,” I said, my voice cracking. “But lately, it feels like I’m invisible.”

Emily’s eyes softened, but she didn’t reach out. “I see you,” she whispered, but I wasn’t sure she meant it.

That night, I lay awake, listening to Linda’s footsteps above us. I thought about all the things I fixed for strangers—leaky pipes, busted locks, broken fences—while my own life was coming apart at the seams. I remembered how proud Emily used to be of me, how she’d brag about her “handyman husband” to her friends. Now, she barely introduced me at all.

Work got harder. Brad’s startup was always almost out of money. Clients called at all hours, needing things fixed, but rarely paying on time. I started bringing home leftovers from job sites—half a sandwich, a piece of pizza, whatever someone didn’t want. Emily noticed, but never said anything.

One night, I overheard Linda on the phone: “Emily deserves better. He can’t even provide a decent meal.”

That stung worse than any cut or bruise. I wanted to storm in, demand respect, but I just sat in the garage, staring at my hands, wondering what it meant to be a man in a world that only valued what you could put on the table.

The next Sunday, the same scene played out. Chicken, laughter, and me with cold leftovers. This time, I spoke up. “Emily, can we talk? Alone.”

Linda bristled, but Emily followed me to the porch.

“This isn’t working,” I said, voice trembling. “I feel like a ghost in my own house.”

She looked away. “I know. I just… I’m scared, Jake. Everything’s changing.”

“Yeah, but we’re supposed to be together in this. Not just roommates sharing a fridge.”

She nodded, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I miss us too.”

We sat in silence, the sounds of dinner drifting through the open window. I realized then that love doesn’t always look like candlelit dinners or feasts. Sometimes, it’s two people eating cold spaghetti, trying to find their way back to each other.

I still fix things for a living. But now, Emily and I try to talk, even when it hurts. Sometimes Linda joins us, sometimes she doesn’t. The feasts are simpler, but the table feels fuller.

Do you ever wonder what really holds a family together? Is it what’s on the table, or who’s sitting beside you?