After six years of marriage, Lester grew tired of me—his obedient, angelic “first love.” Instead, he became infatuated with the fiery tempered owner of a stir-fry stall in a food court.
“She’s passionate, vibrant, and full of life—qualities you lack,” he once told me.
They kissed passionately in the dim light of her tiny kitchen.
Later, Lester left the marriage with nothing, only to discover that the woman he had fallen for had three children—each with a different father. That revelation shattered him.
——
One day, while taking out the trash, I noticed a neatly packaged healthy meal sitting in the garbage can. It was in a container I’d personally chosen and decorated with a sticker that morning.
The beef inside? I had gotten up at 5 a.m. to prepare it because Lester claimed he couldn’t stand eating leftovers.
This was the third time this week I had found my meals untouched in the trash.
It was alright when it happened once but when a husband repeatedly avoided eating the meals his wife prepared, it didn’t take much to guess where he’d been eating instead.
Recently, Lester reeked of greasy stir-fry, his previously lean waistline now encircled by a layer of fat. My mind raced, piecing things together. His frequent smiles while looking at his phone, his uncharacteristic lightheartedness. It was obvious—he was infatuated.
About a month ago, he came home scowling, his expensive suit stained with sauce and smelled of braised ribs.
“There's a new stall in the food court near the office. The owner only sells stir-fry,” he grumbled. “I said I couldn’t stand the smell of grease, and she had the audacity to splash sauce on my clothes! How does someone with a temper like that even run a business?”
I smiled as I took the suit from him. “It’s okay, I’ll wash it for you. She’s probably just trying to make a living. Maybe don’t say things like that next time.”
The next evening, he returned in a noticeably better mood.
“She does know a thing or two about manners,” he remarked. “She invited me for a meal to apologize. Honestly, for someone so hot-tempered, I’m surprised she’s gotten this far in life. But her cooking? It’s incredible. Reminds me of the stir-fried dishes my mom used to make in a big wok.”
I reminded him, “Your triglyceride levels are high. Don’t eat too much.”
He didn’t seem to hear me. He was in such high spirits that he even hummed a tune.
For years, Lester’s health had been a concern. High blood pressure, high blood sugar, and especially high triglycerides—doctors had warned him time and time again to control his diet.
That was why I got up early every morning to make his healthy meals.
But now, I couldn’t ignore the evidence. Pulling the discarded meal container from the trash, I threw it directly at him. The leftover sauce splattered across his face.
“What the hell, Amelia?!” he shouted, wiping his face in disgust.
When he saw the container—the very one he’d thrown into the trash—his expression softened slightly.
“Amelia, I’m sorry. I had a business lunch with colleagues today. Please don’t be upset.”
The next day, I drove to the food court near his office.
I soon spotted her—the stall owner. She looked about thirty-five or thirty-six, with an alluring presence. Her glossy black curls framed her face, exuding the charm of a mature woman.
I ordered a coffee and sat at a distance, watching.
As the crowd began to pick up, Lester appeared, jogging over to her with a wide grin.
“Hey, I brought you some cakes. Didn’t you say you always pass by the bakery but can’t bring yourself to buy any? I got one of every flavor for you to try.”
She glanced at him with a playful smirk. Opening the box, she said, “I don’t like durian. Take that one back to your wife.”
Without missing a beat, Lester took the durian-flavored cake out and set it aside. He ordered food with practiced ease, chatting with the lady boss casually, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a smile.
Later that night, Lester placed the durian-flavored cake in front of me.
