"I don't care! From now on, I'd rather eat Aunt Nora's leftovers every single day than touch anything you make!"
I grabbed my son, hauled him over, and smacked his bottom hard. Once, twice, three times.
"Are you going to eat other people's leftovers again? Are you?!"
John wailed at the top of his lungs. At first he was stubborn, screaming yes through his tears. It wasn't until the sting really set in that he finally caved.
"No! I won't! I'll eat my food from now on, I promise!"
The very next day, he was at it again.
He picked up a bite of the moo shu pork I'd made, chewed once, and spat it right back out.
"Mom's food tastes gross. I don't want it."
Then he burst into tears.
I was exhausted. Body and soul.
"Fine. If my cooking is so terrible, your dad can cook for you from now on."
John slammed his little palm on the table and shot to his feet. "Why should Dad have to cook?! Dad works all day and he's already tired enough! You just sit around the house doing nothing, and now you want him to cook too? You're so lazy you might as well be dead!"
I stared at my son, stunned.
"I cook. I do laundry. I clean the house. I pick you up from school and help you with your homework. And I still have to squeeze in time for my own work. How is that nothing?"
"I don't go to an office, but my life is not one bit easier than your father's!"
"Oh, please. Cooking and cleaning? That's not real work. You get to lounge around at home all day while Dad's out there busting his back to put food on the table!"
"All that house stuff is YOUR job. Dad already works so hard, and you want to make him cook on top of it? Are you trying to kill him?!"
I turned to look at Vincent.
A six-year-old doesn't come up with words like that on his own. Someone had been feeding him this garbage, drilling it into his head that I did nothing all day.
So that was how Vincent saw it. Everything I did was worthless.
"All right then. I'll go get a job, and Dad can stay home with you."
"How much could you possibly earn? Besides, all you do is doodle. You can do that at home. Why would you need to go anywhere?"
"If we had to survive on what you make, this whole family would starve!"
The truth was, I earned far more than Vincent did.
I was a professional illustrator. I drew artwork for bestselling books by well-known authors. Vincent was just an ordinary sales rep, and if it weren't for me feeding him client referrals, he wouldn't even hit his base salary.
In that moment, something clicked.
Maybe John's problem with my cooking had nothing to do with the taste. He looked down on me. Deep down, my own son thought I was beneath him, and that made everything I touched beneath him too.
Vincent reached over and squeezed my hand. "Babe, he's just a kid. He doesn't know what he's saying. Don't take it to heart."
John shoved his bowl away. "I'm done. I'm going to play with Lily!"
And just like that, he bolted out the door to Nora's place.
I took a breath. Steadied myself.
"Go bring him back."
Vincent left.
I waited. And waited. Neither of them came back.
Finally I walked over to Nora's and knocked on the door myself.
Nora opened it, saw me, and let out a little laugh.
"The two of them are in there eating."
Vincent was hunched over a plate, grease glistening on his lips. He looked up and grinned. "Babe, no wonder Johnny won't eat your food. Your cooking really can't hold a candle to Nora's!"
John didn't even raise his head. "Mom, from now on I'd rather eat Aunt Nora's leftovers every day than eat anything you make!"
I looked at the picked-over dishes in front of them. The scraped-clean plates. Other people's leftovers.
A feeling spread through me, slow and heavy, something I couldn't quite name.
It wasn't hurt. It wasn't anger.
It was just the quiet, sickening clarity of wondering what kind of man I had married, and what kind of child I had raised.
I went home. I sat down and finished my dinner alone.
Then I scraped every last bit of leftover food into the trash.
Starting today, I was only cooking for myself.
