After my dad died, my mom Colleen became a shadow of herself—until Raymond, a colleague, brought her laughter back. Their whirlwind romance led to marriage, but six months later, I visited and sensed something was wrong. Mom looked unwell, tired, and afraid. Raymond was controlling and cruel, demanding fresh meals and belittling her. I knew I had to act.
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.
