Iris had spent the day preparing a quiet, heartfelt dinner for her husband Neil—a one-pot roast chicken with orzo, lemon, and herbs. It wasn’t just a meal; it was a gesture of love, a small attempt to reconnect after months of emotional distance. She set the table with candles and cloth napkins, hoping to create a moment of warmth in a house that had grown cold.
But when Neil walked in, distracted and dismissive, he barely acknowledged her effort. “I’ve got a client meeting,” he said, brushing past her. Hours later, he returned—not with gratitude, but with contempt. Without tasting a bite, he threw the entire dish into the trash. “You’ll thank me later,” he muttered.
Iris was stunned. The food wasn’t spoiled. It was fresh, fragrant, and made with care. His act wasn’t about the chicken—it was a message. One that said her efforts, her love, her presence didn’t matter.
The next morning, Iris discovered the truth. Neil had been hiding something far more corrosive than criticism: he’d been having an affair. The dinner she made was never going to be eaten—he had already eaten elsewhere. The betrayal wasn’t just emotional; it was calculated. His cruelty had a purpose.
That was the moment Iris stopped trying. She filed for divorce, not out of anger, but out of clarity. The chicken was never the issue—it was the final symbol of a love that had been discarded long before dinner was served.
