he whole thing started on a Wednesday evening when I got home later than usual and found my husband sitting at the kitchen table with a calculator, three unopened envelopes, and the expression of a man who had apparently been appointed secretary of the treasury while I was at work.
My name is Esme, and I work as an auditor for a luxury restaurant group. Basically, I travel between our restaurants and make sure the places charging people $80 for a piece of fish are actually giving them an $80 experience.
I check kitchens, inventory, service, supplier invoices, food waste, staff procedures, cleanliness, wine storage, everything.
Sometimes my job is glamorous. Sometimes I am on my knees at 7 in the morning looking behind a refrigerator because somebody has been lying about when they last cleaned under it.
I make good money though, and my husband Daniel knew that when he married me.
Daniel also made decent money. Not what I made, but he wasn’t struggling. He worked in commercial property management and had a normal salary, benefits, and a job that ended at 5 most days.
We owned a three-bedroom house together, had two cars, no children, and until that Wednesday, I thought we were doing fine.
His younger sister, Megan, had given birth to twins about 6 weeks earlier. Two girls, very cute babies, very loud babies, and according to Daniel’s entire family, apparently the first babies ever born in North America.
Since the twins arrived, every conversation involved Megan.
Megan was tired. Megan needed a better stroller. Megan couldn’t cook. Megan’s husband, Kyle, wasn’t sleeping. Megan needed organic diapers. Megan couldn’t possibly go back to work. Megan had read that ordinary laundry detergent might interfere with infant neurological development.
I didn’t know what article she had read, but apparently it was written by somebody selling $40 baby detergent.
I’d already sent them a large gift when the twins were born. Then I paid for 2 weeks of prepared meals because Megan called Daniel crying that she was living on cereal.
I bought diapers twice. I bought a bottle sterilizer. I even paid for somebody to clean their house once because Daniel said the place had become overwhelming.
I wasn’t angry about any of that. They had newborn twins. I understood.
What I didn’t understand was why Daniel had my payub sitting in front of him.
I put my purse down.
“Why do you have that?”
Daniel tapped the calculator.
“We need to talk.”
I actually thought something had happened with our mortgage.
Then he leaned back and said very seriously, “The comfort is over.”
I stared at him.
“The what?”
“The comfort. The extra spending. Starting today, half your paycheck goes to Megan. She has newborns.”
I just stood there for a second.
He continued like he’d been practicing.
“You make way more than you actually need, Esme. Megan and Kyle are drowning. Mom and dad can only do so much. I already told Megan we’d help.”
“You told Megan that half my paycheck is going to her?”
“Not exactly half specifically.” He looked at the calculator. “But around there.”
I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.
“Daniel, that’s several thousand a month.”
“I know.”
“For how long?”
He shrugged.
“Until they’re stable.”
“When is that?”
“I don’t know. Babies are expensive.”
“So maybe 18 years.”
He sighed.
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
I wasn’t even really angry yet. Mostly, I was fascinated.
The confidence was incredible.
This man had apparently spent one afternoon with a calculator and discovered communism.
He pushed my payub toward me.
“You can afford it. We can cut back.”
“We?”
“Yes.”
“What are you cutting?”
Daniel looked offended.
“Why are you making this about me?”
That was when I knew I shouldn’t argue.
Normally, I would have argued. I would have explained the mortgage, retirement contributions, insurance, groceries, savings, travel, repairs, taxes, everything.
I audit businesses for a living. I could have given that man a 40-minute presentation with charts.
But suddenly, I didn’t want to because Daniel had one very strange blind spot.
He had absolutely no idea how much of our comfortable life came from me.
Not just the mortgage, the stupid little things: the cleaner who came every second Friday, the premium grocery delivery, the lawn service, his dry cleaning, the expensive coffee beans he drank every morning, the streaming subscriptions, the wine club, the meal kits he liked when I traveled, the gym membership he barely used but enjoyed mentioning, the upgraded internet because he complained about buffering during football, and especially Sunday lunch with his parents.
That was its own ridiculous category.
Daniel’s mother, Patricia, had developed what I can only describe as a late life culinary personality disorder.
Before I married Daniel, Patricia ate normal food. Daniel had photographs. There was proof.
This woman used to serve grocery store potato salad directly from the plastic container.
Then she found out what I did for a living.
Within 2 years, Patricia had transformed herself into what she called a serious food person.
Nobody had authorized this.
She started saying things like, “I find ordinary olive oil aggressive.”
She once sent back soup at a diner because it lacked narrative.
It was chicken noodle soup.
She pronounced bruschetta differently every week.
She owned six tiny spoons. She called her tasting spoons and carried one in her purse.
Whenever she and Daniel’s father, Frank, came over for Sunday lunch, she expected an event.
Nothing enormous, but because of my job, I had access to good suppliers, staff recommendations, discounts, leftover specialty ingredients from tastings, and sometimes products restaurants were testing.
So, Sunday lunch gradually became ridiculous.
Imported cheese, fresh bread, good wine, seafood, desserts from one of our pastry kitchens.
Once I brought home a small tin of truffles from a supplier presentation, and Patricia talked about it for 9 months.
She told people I had a truffle connection.
I worked in restaurant auditing. I was not trafficking truffles through international waters.
But Daniel loved those lunches, too.
He loved opening the door while his mother walked in asking, “What has Esme done today?”
He loved sitting down, drinking wine, eating, and accepting compliments as if he’d personally harvested the scallops.
So when Daniel said, “The comfort is over,” I looked at him for another few seconds.
Then I smiled.
“Okay.”
He blinked.
“Okay, sure. You agree?”
“Half my paycheck goes to Megan. Starting now.”
His entire face relaxed.
“Thank you. Seriously, I knew you’d understand.”
“Oh, I understand.”
He came around the table and kissed the top of my head.
“You’re amazing.”
That night, I canceled almost everything.
Cleaner, lawn service, grocery delivery, wine subscription, meal kits, his premium gym, three streaming services, his dry cleaning pickup, the car wash membership, the ridiculous coffee subscription that sent us beans from a different country every 10 days.
I also changed our household account contribution.
Until then, I’d been putting in much more than Daniel because I earned more.
If half my paycheck was now committed elsewhere, we were going 50/50 on shared expenses.
Exactly 50/50.
The next morning, Daniel came downstairs and stood in front of the coffee machine.
“Where are the beans?”
“Those were part of the comfort.”
He looked inside the cabinet.
“We have coffee.”
I pointed at a large container of regular ground coffee.
He stared at it like I’d shown him roofing nails.
“What is that coffee? That is not the coffee we drink.”
“It is starting today.”
He looked at me.
I drank mine.
Daniel took one sip and said it tasted like conference room coffee.
I told him conference rooms had successfully kept millions of people alive.
Friday, he texted me at work.
“Did you cancel the cleaners?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Comfort.”
He did not respond for 20 minutes.
Then, “So who’s cleaning?”
I wrote, “We are.”
That evening, I came home and found Daniel standing in the hallway holding a vacuum cleaner like someone had handed him an unexloded bomb.
“Where do the attachments go?”
“You’ve lived here 4 years.”
“I don’t vacuum.”
“I know.”
Saturday morning was even better.
Daniel came downstairs holding two dress shirts.
“My blue shirts weren’t picked up.”
“Dry cleaning pickup was comfort.”
“I need these Monday.”
“There’s an iron upstairs.”
He stared at me.
“Do we own an iron?”
That was how comfortable he’d been.
But none of this prepared him for Patricia.
Saturday afternoon, she called me.
“Esme, darling, what are we having tomorrow?”
Patricia always called me darling when food was involved.
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
Not normal silence.
Deep, frightened silence.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Daniel is handling lunch.”
Another silence.
Then she laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Oh, good one.”
“I’m serious.”
“Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“My Daniel?”
“Yes, Patricia. Your Daniel.”
She lowered her voice.
“Has something happened to you?”
“No.”
“Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Did your company lose its seafood supplier?”
“No.”
“Is this about that hepatitis thing at the downtown location?”
“There is no hepatitis thing.”
“All right. I just wanted to make sure.”
Then she paused.
“Should I bring my own butter?”
That was Patricia.
Sunday morning, I woke up at 8 and found Daniel standing in the kitchen in sweatpants scrolling through his phone.
“Mom texted.”
“Okay.”
“She says she’s excited about lunch.”
“That’s nice.”
“She asked whether we’re doing seafood.”
“Also nice.”
Daniel turned slowly.
“What do you normally make?”
“I don’t know.”
Depends.
“Depends on what?”
“What I buy.”
He frowned.
“So, what should I buy?”
“Food.”
“Esme.”
I poured myself ordinary coffee.
He followed me around the kitchen.
“What does mom like?”
I looked at him.
“She’s your mother.”
“I know, but you’re the food person.”
“Your mother likes attention arranged on a plate.”
That did not help him.
He left for the supermarket.
He called me.
“Why is salmon $22 a pound?”
“Because it’s salmon.”
“Do we usually pay that?”
“Sometimes.”
“What about frozen?”
“Buy frozen.”
“Mom will know.”
“No, she won’t.”
“She absolutely will.”
I almost laughed because Daniel had become completely infected by Patricia’s nonsense.
He called again.
“They don’t have the little potatoes.”
“What little potatoes?”
“The fancy ones.”
“Buy normal potatoes.”
“What makes a potato fancy?”
“Apparently fear.”
He hung up.
He came through the front door carrying enough bags to suggest he’d panicked.
I stayed in the living room reading while he worked or attempted to work.
Every few minutes, I heard something.
A pan dropping, a cabinet slamming, the blender, then the smoke alarm, then Daniel saying a word I won’t repeat.
I walked into the kitchen once.
There was flour on the floor.
“Why is there flour?”
“I’m making bread.”
“Why?”
“Mom likes fresh bread.”
“You have never made bread.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
A lump of dough was attached to his wrist.
I left him there.
Patricia called.
“We’re leaving now.”
“Great.”
She sounded unusually excited.
“Oh, and I hope you don’t mind, but I told Beverly Watkins we were having lunch at your place.”
I sat up.
“Why?”
Beverly was Patricia’s neighbor and mortal enemy.
They had been competing for at least 15 years about things nobody else knew were competitions.
Christmas wreaths, hydrangeas, grandchildren, driveways.
One year, Patricia replaced her mailbox because Beverly’s mailbox had too much confidence.
“Beverly has been bragging about a tasting menu her daughter took her to,” Patricia said. “I happened to mention that I regularly have private chef level lunches.”
“You happen to mention that?”
“Yes, at my house.”
“Yes, prepared by me.”
A pause.
“I didn’t use those exact words.”
“What exact words did you use?”
Another pause.
“I may have said my daughter-in-law works in luxury dining and personally curates our Sundays.”
I closed my eyes.
“Patricia, she was being unbearable. So, is Beverly coming?”
“Absolutely not. I would never invite somebody to your home without asking.”
“Good.”
“She’s dropping us off.”
Of course, she was.
Daniel came into the living room sweating.
“Do we have parsley?”
“No idea.”
“Mom likes parsley.”
“Then I hope you bought parsley.”
He stared at me for a second.
“You’re enjoying this a little.”
I heard him yell, “No, no, no, no.”
I went into the kitchen.
Daniel was standing beside the sink.
On the counter were six live lobsters.
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
One lobster slowly raised a claw.
“Why?”
“Mom likes lobster.”
“Why are they alive?”
“They were cheaper this way.”
“Daniel, that’s usually how live lobster works.”
“I thought the store would—”
He gestured vaguely.
“Handle them.”
“Handle them. How?”
“I don’t know. Make them less alive.”
I had to turn away because I was laughing.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Cook them?”
“How?”
“Pot.”
He pointed toward our largest pot.
“That fits maybe two.”
“Yes, we have six.”
“Yes.”
“Why did I buy six?”
“I have no idea.”
He bought six because Patricia had once announced that one lobster per adult is civilized.
Frank didn’t even like lobster.
Frank liked meatloaf.
Unfortunately, Daniel had put all six in the sink while trying to figure out what to do. Then apparently decided to prepare everything else first.
This was his first mistake.
His second mistake was believing lobsters respect sinks.
Three had escaped.
One was behind the toaster, one was under the small rolling cart near the pantry, and one had disappeared completely.
Daniel was on his knees looking underneath cabinets.
“Where did it go?”
“You lost a lobster.”
“It moved faster than I expected.”
“You’ve created a seafood fugitive.”
“This isn’t funny.”
It was extremely funny.
Then the doorbell rang.
Daniel froze.
“My parents probably—help me.”
“No.”
“Esme.”
“Half my paycheck is currently helping your sister.”
The doorbell rang again.
Then I heard Patricia outside.
“Daniel. Esme.”
He stood up.
“Just keep mom out of the kitchen.”
I walked toward the front door.
Before I got there, it opened.
Patricia had her own key for emergencies.
Apparently, lunch disappointment qualified.
She entered wearing white pants, a pale pink blouse, oversized sunglasses, and a silk scarf tied around her neck.
Behind her was Frank, carrying a bottle of wine.
And behind Frank, visible through the open door, sat Beverly Watkins in her enormous white SUV.
Beverly lowered the window.
“Have a wonderful private culinary experience, Patricia.”
Patricia turned around and waved.
“We always do.”
Then she closed the door and immediately whispered, “That woman is poison.”
Frank handed me the wine.
“I wanted beer, but apparently beer doesn’t match lobster.”
I looked at Patricia.
“How did you know there was lobster?”
She smiled.
“Daniel asked me what I wanted.”
“Of course.”
Then she sniffed the air.
Her smile changed.
“What is that smell?”
From the kitchen came a loud metallic bang.
Daniel shouted, “I’m fine.”
Patricia’s eyes narrowed.
“Where’s Daniel cooking?”
She laughed again.
Then she realized I wasn’t laughing.
“Oh, another bang.”
Patricia moved toward the kitchen.
I almost stopped her.
I really did.
But then I thought about Wednesday.
The comfort is over.
So, I let her go.
Patricia pushed open the kitchen door.
For maybe 2 seconds, there was complete silence.
Then she screamed.
I have never heard a human being make that noise before.
It wasn’t a normal scream.
It started low, climbed three octaves, broke somewhere in the middle, then came back stronger.
Frank dropped the wine.
Daniel dropped a spoon.
I ran into the kitchen.
Patricia was standing on top of one of our dining chairs.
The missing lobster had been found.
It was attached to the bottom of her white pant leg, not to her skin, just the loose fabric near her ankle.
But Patricia did not know this.
“Get it off me!”
Daniel stood 6 feet away holding kitchen tongs.
“Stop moving.”
“I am being eaten!”
“It’s not eating you.”
“It has my leg!”
Frank came in behind me, took one look, and started laughing so hard he had to hold the doorway.
“Frank!”
Sorry.
He was not sorry.
Patricia kicked.
The lobster released her pants, flew maybe 2 feet across the floor, landed near the island, and began moving sideways.
Patricia screamed again.
Outside, a dog started barking.
Then another dog.
I heard a car door slam.
Our neighbor, Mr. Jenkins, yelled from his yard, “Everything okay?”
Patricia climbed from the chair onto the kitchen island.
I am not exaggerating.
A 62-year-old woman in white pants and wedge sandals climbed onto my kitchen island because of a lobster.
“Patricia, it’s on the floor.”
“I can see that.”
“Esme, you’re safe.”
“There are more.”
She had spotted the sink.
Four remaining lobsters were piled inside.
One raised a claw.
Patricia pointed at it.
“That one is looking at me.”
Frank was practically crying now.
“Pat, they’re lobsters.”
“I know what they are, Frank.”
Then the lobster near the island moved.
Patricia grabbed the nearest object.
Unfortunately, it was the bread Daniel had attempted.
Calling it bread was generous.
It was a dense, pale object approximately the size and shape of a construction brick.
She threw it.
The bread hit the floor 6 in in front of the lobster with a sound like somebody dropping a paving stone.
The lobster stopped.
Everyone stopped.
Frank looked at the bread.
“What the hell is that?”
Daniel looked deeply offended.
“A baguette.”
Frank wiped his eyes.
“You could kill a burglar with it.”
By then, the doorbell was ringing.
Mr. Jenkins.
Then somebody knocked on the side window.
Our other neighbor, Carla.
Patricia was still on the island.
“Close the curtains.”
“Why?”
“Beverly might still be outside.”
That was her concern.
Not death, not injury.
Beverly Watkins discovering that her private luxury lunch was under attack by uncooked seafood.
Frank looked through the front window.
“Bad news.”
Patricia went pale.
“What?”
“Beverly hasn’t left.”
“Why? Wait, why?”
“Probably because you screamed like you were being murdered.”
Patricia immediately got down from the island.
I had never seen fear overcome fear that quickly.
One second, she was terrified of lobsters.
The next second, social embarrassment had apparently restored her ability to walk among them.
“Daniel,” she hissed. “Fix this.”
Daniel looked around the kitchen.
There was flour on the floor, potatoes boiling over, smoke drifting from the oven, six live lobsters in various locations, and his bread could legally be classified as masonry.
“How?”
Patricia turned to me.
“Esme?”
“No.”
She blinked.
“No, Daniel is cooking today.”
“Why?”
I leaned against the counter.
“Because the comfort is over.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
Patricia looked between us.
“What does that mean?”
So I told her.
“Half my paycheck, Megan. Daniel’s decision. Cutting back. 50/50 expenses. All of it.”
Patricia listened without interrupting.
That alone was terrifying.
When I finished, she slowly turned toward her son.
“You gave away half Esme’s paycheck.”
Daniel rubbed his face.
“I didn’t give it away. Megan needs help.”
“Half?”
“Temporarily.”
Patricia pointed around the kitchen.
“Is this temporary?”
Frank started laughing again.
Daniel snapped.
“Dad, stop.”
Patricia looked genuinely horrified.
“Do you know what Esme does for a living?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what you do for a living?”
Daniel stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
“It means when one person professionally inspects luxury restaurants and the other manages office parks, perhaps the restaurant person should remain in charge of lobster.”
I actually had to bite the inside of my cheek.
Then Patricia remembered something.
She grabbed my arm.
“Does this mean you’re not doing Sunday lunches anymore?”
“That would be comfort.”
Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.
But she looked around as though somebody had died.
“What about Christmas?”
“Comfort.”
“Thanksgiving?”
“Comfort.”
“My birthday dinner?”
“Definitely comfort.”
Patricia put a hand over her chest.
Then she turned on Daniel with more anger than she had shown when a lobster was hanging from her trousers.
“What have you done?”
“Mom, Megan has twins.”
“I know she has twins. I was there when they came out.”
Frank made a choking sound.
Daniel looked miserable.
“We all need to sacrifice.”
Patricia pointed at him.
“Wonderful. What are you sacrificing?”
Daniel said nothing.
She waited.
Still nothing.
Then she looked at me.
“Has he sacrificed anything?”
“His coffee.”
Patricia stared at him.
“That’s it?”
“And dry cleaning.”
“You gave your sister several thousand a month, and your contribution is drinking supermarket coffee.”
When she put it that way, it sounded even worse.
Outside, Beverly honked.
Patricia jumped.
“Oh my god.”
Frank looked out the window again.
“She rolled the window down.”
Patricia grabbed both sides of her head.
“She can smell weakness.”
“Pat,” Frank said. “She’s 70 ft away in an SUV.”
“You don’t know Beverly.”
The doorbell rang again.
Then Beverly’s voice floated through the front door.
“Patricia, is everything all right?”
Patricia whispered, “Nobody move.”
The kitchen timer went off.
Daniel jumped.
One lobster moved.
Patricia jumped.
The smoke alarm started again.
Frank opened a window.
Outside, three neighbors were now standing in their yards.
Mr. Jenkins was holding a garden hose for reasons nobody understood.
Carla had her phone out, and Beverly Watkins was halfway up our driveway.
Patricia looked at me.
“Esme, please.”
I should have let the disaster continue.
I really should have, but I work in restaurant operations.
There are certain things my body apparently cannot tolerate, and watching six lobsters wander around a kitchen while potatoes die on the stove is one of them.
Fine.
I rolled up my sleeves.
25 minutes later, the kitchen was under control.
Not luxury restaurant control.
Survival control.
The lobsters were contained.
The potatoes were saved.
I turned Daniel’s strange vegetables into something edible, found salad ingredients, fixed the sauce he’d broken, and sliced his bread thin enough that nobody would lose a tooth if they approached it carefully.
Beverly eventually went home after Patricia opened the front door exactly 3 in and told her there had been a small equipment issue.
Beverly asked if the equipment had claws.
Patricia closed the door in her face.
Lunch was served at almost 2.
Frank drank three beers despite Patricia’s objections.
Daniel barely spoke.
Patricia ate one bite of lobster and looked at me.
“This is excellent.”
“Thank you.”
Then she looked at Daniel.
“This is what you almost took from me.”
“Mom, I’m serious. Megan has babies.”
“Yes, Daniel. Babies. Millions of people have them without confiscating their sister-in-law’s salary.”
After lunch, Patricia asked how much Daniel had actually promised Megan.
When he told her, she nearly screamed again.
I put my finger up.
“No, one neighborhood emergency per day.”
Frank laughed so hard he spilled his beer.
The funny part was that Patricia became my biggest supporter after that.
Not because she suddenly discovered feminism.
Not because she had a deep realization about financial independence.
Nothing that noble.
She wanted her lunches back.
By Tuesday, she had created what she called a family sustainability plan.
She printed it.
It had tabs.
Patricia had never made a spreadsheet in her life, but apparently the threat of losing imported cheese had activated dormant administrative abilities.
She called Megan and told her she was happy to help with the babies, but several thousand a month was ridiculous.
Megan cried.
Patricia did not care.
“Your father and I will babysit Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“I need money, Mom.”
“You need sleep and a budget.”
“Kyle says daycare is expensive.”
“Then Kyle can come over and explain his budget to me.”
Kyle did not come over.
Daniel was furious that his mother had gotten involved until she reminded him that he’d gotten the whole family involved first.
For the next month, I kept my promise.
Half my paycheck went to Megan, but everything else stayed exactly as I’d changed it.
Daniel paid half the mortgage, half the utilities, half the groceries, half the insurance.
He cleaned.
He mowed the lawn.
He ironed his own shirts.
He drank conference room coffee.
3 weeks in, he sat beside me on the couch with his banking app open.
“This isn’t sustainable.”
I looked at him.
“What isn’t this?”
He gestured around the room.
“Life.”
I almost laughed.
“We’re paying the bills.”
“I have $86 until Friday.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I had to say no to lunch with Kevin today.”
“Comfort.”
He frowned.
“I hate that word now.”
“I’ve grown very fond of it.”
The following Sunday, Patricia and Frank came over again.
Patricia walked into the house carrying grocery bags.
“I brought food.”
I stared at her.
She had never brought food.
Not once.
“I bought a roast,” she announced proudly. “On sale.”
Frank leaned toward me.
“She compared prices for 40 minutes.”
Patricia ignored him.
“I also brought potatoes. Normal potatoes. Apparently, they’re perfectly acceptable.”
“That must have been difficult.”
“It was humbling.”
Then she pulled out a loaf of supermarket bread.
We both looked at Daniel.
He looked away.
Patricia patted the loaf.
“Soft.”
Frank started laughing before she’d even finished the word.
A month later, Daniel finally told Megan the amount had to change.
Not because I demanded it.
I didn’t.
He did the math himself.
Megan wasn’t happy.
She accused him of abandoning her.
Then Patricia discovered Megan and Kyle were still paying for two car leases, three meal delivery subscriptions, a monthly baby photography package, and something called infant sensory enrichment that costs $200 a month.
Patricia called me immediately.
“Do you know what infant sensory enrichment is?”
“No.”
“Neither do they.”
Eventually, Daniel apologized.
It wasn’t a movie apology.
He didn’t get on his knees.
He didn’t make some huge speech.
One night while we were washing dishes, he said, “I really didn’t understand how much you were covering.”
“I know.”
“I thought because you made more, the extra money was just extra. I know that sounds stupid now.”
“Yes.”
He dried a plate.
Then he said, “I’m sorry I told Megan before I even talked to you.”
That mattered more than everything else.
We stopped the half paycheck arrangement after 2 months.
We still helped Megan and Kyle, but with a fixed amount we both agreed on, and Patricia and Frank started babysitting twice a week.
Daniel continued doing half the housework.
I refused to reverse that part.
The cleaner eventually came back.
So did the good coffee.
The lawn service returned in spring.
Sunday lunches came back, too.
Although Patricia now brings something every time, usually potatoes.
She has developed an almost aggressive loyalty to normal potatoes.
And nobody in Daniel’s family has requested lobster since that Sunday.
Patricia claims she doesn’t eat bottom dwelling armored insects anymore.
This is the same woman who once told me lobster was the poetry of the Atlantic.
Last Christmas, she gave Daniel a breadmaking book.
Frank gave him kitchen tongs.
I gave him coffee.
And Patricia gave me a small framed photograph.
Carla, our neighbor, had apparently taken it from across the street that Sunday.
It showed Patricia standing on my kitchen island in white pants, one shoe missing, pointing down at something outside the frame while Daniel stood below her holding tongs.
On the back, Patricia had written, “The day your husband learned what comfort costs.”
She keeps a second copy in her own kitchen.
Beverly Watkins has seen it.
Patricia says that part bothers her less now.
I don’t believe her.
