“I’ve got a client meeting,” he interrupted, already halfway out the door again.
The moment stung, but I told myself not to take it personally. Instead, I set the table with cloth napkins, lit candles, and brought out our heavy plates — the ones we usually kept for guests.
The scent of roasting chicken filled the house, golden and savory, the kind of smell that makes a home feel alive.
The Shock in the Kitchen
When Neil came home hours later, I was lighting the last candle. I waited for him to notice the effort, the warmth, the care.
Instead, I heard the trash can lid swing open.
By the time I reached the kitchen, Neil was scraping the entire roast chicken into the garbage.
“What are you doing?!” I gasped.
“It was sitting out too long,” he said without looking at me. “You’ll thank me later.”
The chicken — perfectly roasted, fragrant with rosemary and lemon — landed in the bin with a soft thud, buried under coffee grounds and paper towels.
The “10-Minute Rule”
Neil explained, in that slow, condescending tone I’d come to dread, that raw chicken should never be left out for more than 10 minutes. He’d timed me — actually set a timer — and claimed I’d let it sit for twelve.
Two minutes past his arbitrary limit.
I knew he was wrong. I also knew this wasn’t really about food safety. But I’d been through enough arguments with Neil to recognize the trap: logic twisted into control, delivered with a shrug that made me look like the unreasonable one.
And in that moment, something inside me went still.
The Quiet Decision
I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry.
I just ordered a pizza.
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