For days, I cooked elaborate meals using leftovers, and Raymond praised every bite. Then, I revealed the truth—he’d been eating recycled meals all week. His ego cracked. I confronted him, took Mom out to dinner, and stayed an extra week to help her pack his things and change the locks.
When Raymond returned, Mom stood firm. “This is my late husband’s house,” she said. Months later, she called, laughing. “I told Raymond I had plans—leftover lasagna. It’s delicious.”
We both knew what that meal really tasted like: freedom.
