Every Day I Cook for Peter: When Will It Ever Be Enough?

The kitchen clock blinked 5:12 a.m. in the dark, silent house. My hands trembled as I cracked eggs into the pan, the sizzle louder than my own heartbeat. I glanced at the calendar—another Tuesday, another day I’d start with the same question echoing in my mind: “Will this be enough for Peter?”

I heard his footsteps upstairs, heavy and impatient. I braced myself.

“Is breakfast ready?” Peter called, his voice sharp, as if I’d already failed him.

“Yes, almost,” I replied, forcing cheer into my tone. My name is Susan Miller. I’m 38, and for the last twelve years, I’ve been married to a man who refuses to eat anything that isn’t freshly made. No leftovers. No reheated meals. Every day, I cook from scratch—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I used to think it was love. Now, I’m not so sure.

—

I work as a nurse at St. Luke’s Hospital in Cleveland. My shifts are long, my feet ache, and my heart aches even more. But every day, I rush home, knowing Peter will be waiting, hungry and expectant. He never asks how my day was. He never offers to help. He just sits at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone, waiting for his meal.

One night, after a twelve-hour shift, I tried to serve him leftover chicken parmesan. I’d made it the night before, pouring my exhaustion into every layer. Peter took one bite, grimaced, and pushed the plate away.

“I told you, Susan. I don’t eat leftovers.”

I stared at him, my hands shaking. “Peter, I’m tired. I worked all day. Can’t you just—”

He cut me off. “If you loved me, you’d care about what I eat.”

I swallowed my anger, my pride, my hope. I got up and cooked him a fresh meal, tears stinging my eyes as I chopped onions.

—

My friends don’t know the whole story. They see my Instagram posts—homemade cinnamon rolls, roast chicken, apple pie—and they comment, “You’re such a great wife!” They don’t see the way Peter’s silence fills the house, or how I cry in the pantry so he won’t hear me.

My mother calls every Sunday. “Susan, you need to take care of yourself, too.”

I laugh it off. “I’m fine, Mom. Really.”

But I’m not fine. I’m exhausted. I’m invisible. I’m starting to forget who I was before I became Peter’s personal chef.

—

One Friday, I came home late. There was traffic, and a patient coded at the end of my shift. I walked in, breathless, to find Peter pacing the kitchen.

“Where were you?” he snapped.

“I had to stay late at work. I’m sorry.”

He glared at me. “I’m starving. What am I supposed to eat?”

I looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time in months. His face was red, his fists clenched. I felt something inside me snap.

“I’m not your servant, Peter.”

He stared at me, stunned. “What did you say?”

“I said, I’m not your servant. I’m your wife. I work, too. I’m tired, too.”

He scoffed. “You’re overreacting. It’s just food.”

I laughed, a bitter sound. “It’s never just food. It’s every day. It’s every meal. It’s never enough for you.”

He stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. I sank to the floor, sobbing.

—

The next morning, I didn’t get up early. I let the sun wake me, not the alarm. I made coffee just for myself. Peter came downstairs, confused.

“Where’s breakfast?”

I looked at him, my voice steady. “If you’re hungry, you can make something.”

He stared at me, as if seeing me for the first time. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” I said. “I am.”

He grumbled, rummaging through the fridge. He pulled out a container of leftover soup, glared at it, and slammed the door.

I watched him, my heart pounding. I felt guilty, but also free.

—

Days passed. I cooked less. Peter complained more. The silence between us grew heavier. One night, he sat across from me at the dinner table, picking at his food.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“Because I can’t keep living like this,” I said. “I can’t keep giving and giving and never getting anything back.”

He looked away. “I never asked you to do all this.”

I shook my head. “You never had to. You just expected it.”

He didn’t answer. I realized then that he might never change. That maybe, I had to change instead.

—

I started going for walks after work, letting the evening air clear my head. I signed up for a pottery class at the community center. I called my mom more often. I cooked when I wanted to, not because I had to.

Peter noticed. He sulked, he complained, but he didn’t stop me. I think he knew something had shifted.

One night, I sat on the porch, watching the fireflies. Peter came out, sat beside me.

“I miss the way things were,” he said quietly.

I looked at him, tears in my eyes. “I don’t. I was drowning, Peter. I need to matter, too.”

He nodded, silent. For the first time, he reached for my hand.

—

We’re still figuring things out. Some days are better than others. Peter tries, sometimes. He made scrambled eggs last Sunday—burned, but edible. I thanked him, and he smiled, sheepish.

I don’t know what the future holds. But I know this: I am more than what I cook. I am more than what I give. I am enough, just as I am.

And maybe, that’s finally enough for both of us.

Based on a true story.