After my father passed, my mom remarried a man named Raymond. At first, he seemed kind. But soon, he revealed his true self—controlling, ungrateful, and demanding my mom cook fresh meals every day “like a real wife.”
One night, she tried serving leftover lasagna while sick. Raymond exploded, smashing the container and yelling, “I don’t eat the same meal twice!” Watching her clean the mess broke me.
The next morning, I offered to cook. For days, I served Raymond gourmet dishes made from reused ingredients—leftover lamb, repurposed sides, reimagined sauces. He praised every bite, even posting it online.
On the final night, I told him the truth: “You’ve eaten leftovers all week.” His pride shattered. I stood firm and told him to start feeding himself. Then, I took my mom out to dinner.
We changed the locks and ended his reign of cruelty. When he begged to return months later, Mom simply smiled and said, “I’m having lasagna—again.”
Love isn’t owed. Respect is earned. And sometimes, payback is best served reheated.
