There are moments in life when a single act, seemingly small, shines a harsh light on the truth you’ve been trying not to see.
For me, it happened in my own kitchen, on an ordinary Friday night, with the smell of garlic and rosemary still lingering in the air.

I thought I was making dinner.
I didn’t know I was also serving myself a final dose of clarity.

A Simple Meal, Cooked with Love
I had decided to surprise my husband, Neil, with something special — a one-pot roast chicken with orzo.
Nothing extravagant, but warm, comforting, and just indulgent enough to feel like a treat.

I hadn’t cooked for Neil in a long time. Over the years, he’d slowly, subtly chipped away at that part of me — with little criticisms, “helpful” corrections, and the kind of comments that stayed with me long after the dishes were washed.

But that Friday morning, I wanted to try again.

I ordered fresh groceries, picked them up myself, and carried them home like precious cargo.
The herbs were tied in brown paper, the chicken plump and clean in its packaging. Garlic, celery, lemon, shallots, and a bag of tiny orzo pasta — each ingredient chosen with care.

It felt good. It felt intentional. And for the first time all week, the house was quiet.

A Brush-Off I Tried to Ignore
I was zesting a lemon when Neil came through the door, still in his suit, briefcase in one hand, keys in the other.

“Oh,” I said, smiling, “I’m making us something nice for dinner. Roast chicken with orzo. I even bought candles.”

“Sounds complicated,” he muttered, eyes glued to his phone.

“It’s not, it’s actually—”