Chapter 2 - The Cold Reality of the Kitchen
The next morning,
the sun felt too bright,
too intrusive,
as I sat at my desk at work and tried to focus on the budget reports.
Every time I looked at a number,
I saw Keaton’s face,
casual and indifferent,
dismissing my hard work as a communal resource for his mother.
I remembered the early years of our marriage,
when we shared a small pizza and talked about our dreams,
back when we were a team.
But over the last two years,
the team had dissolved,
leaving me as the sole financier of a life I barely recognized.
I had paid for Bernice’s heart medication,
I had paid for the new water heater,
and I had paid for the lavish birthday parties Keaton insisted on throwing for her.
Every time I asked for help,
he had an excuse,
a temporary setback,
a bad month at the firm,
a car repair.
I realized now that he hadn't been struggling,
he had been preparing to pivot his entire income away from our home.
The clock ticked slowly toward five,
and the thought of going home to cook a gourmet meal felt like a betrayal of myself.
I walked out of the office,
the wind chilling my skin,
and drove past the high-end butcher shop I usually frequented.
I pulled into the parking lot of a dusty convenience store,
the neon lights flickering in the twilight.
I walked down the narrow aisles,
past the stale bread and the overpriced milk,
until I reached the shelf of instant noodles.
I picked up two cups,
the cheapest brand available,
the shrimp flavor that Bernice always said made her nauseous.
I felt a strange sense of power as I walked to the counter,
paying with a few crumpled bills instead of my corporate card.
When I reached the apartment,
the silence was broken only by the sound of the television in the living room.
Keaton was sprawled on the sofa,
scrolling through his phone,
while Bernice sat in the armchair,
knitting something in a dull shade of grey.
"Dinner better be good,"
Keaton shouted without looking up,
"I’ve had a stressful day at the office."
I didn't reply,
I went into the kitchen and boiled the kettle,
the whistle of the water sounding like a battle cry.
I peeled back the foil lids,
the steam rising in thin,
salty clouds,
and carried the two plastic cups into the dining room.
I set them down on the expensive linen placemats I had bought last Christmas.
"Where’s the steak?"
Bernice asked,
walking in and staring at the cups with utter disgust.
"What is this trash?"
I sat down at the head of the table,
opening my own cup.
"This is dinner,"
I said,
my voice steady and calm.
May you like
"If you don't contribute,
you don't get to make demands."
