James came home late. Without a word, he kicked off his shoes in the hallway, hung his coat, and walked straight to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he sat at the kitchen table, where a plate of chicken casserole and mushy peas—his wife Sophie’s signature dish—waited for him. Beside it stood a prawn cocktail salad. He picked up his fork, poked at it for a second, then suddenly turned.
“Tell me the truth… Where did you get this salad?” His voice was soft but firm.
Sophie froze, the teapot hovering mid-pour. Something uneasy flickered in her eyes.
They’d been married over thirty years. If asked to rate their marriage out of a hundred, Sophie would’ve said fifty—without hesitation. There’d been love and frustration, happiness and burden, bright days and grinding routine. A normal life. And James—stubborn, tough, but a good man. Loyal, dependable, hardworking.
The breaking point came last spring when Sophie collapsed. The doctor called it simple exhaustion, built up over years. James took her home in a taxi—their car had long been neglected, every spare penny going toward their daughter Emily’s wedding loans.
Emily had just married, dreaming of a reception “like in the films.” Even though the dress was odd and the cake “tasted like rubber,” as James put it, they endured it. They just wanted her happy.
After the wedding, the young couple moved into a flat left by the groom’s grandfather, while James and Sophie kept paying off the loan, scraping by with an old car, worn-out appliances, and endless fatigue.
Sophie taught English and took private lessons. James worked as a mechanic. He refused canteen meals, takeaways—only home-cooked food! Hot, fresh, varied.
Sophie didn’t argue, though she could barely stand after work. One night, she snapped:
“How am I meant to make a roast, two veg, and pudding every night? I’m not a machine!”
James would just mutter about his great-grandmother, who worked the fields, fed eight children, and still found time for village plays.
Sophie was just… tired. One evening, stopping at a new deli near their house for bread, she saw the salad counter. Suddenly, she heard herself say:
“The prawn cocktail, please. Large.”
That night’s dinner was shepherd’s pie, treacle tart… and that salad.
“Blimey, something new! Tastes homemade,” James praised.
Sophie said nothing. And so began her secret: if she couldn’t manage, she bought it. Fresh, delicious, a bit pricier—but it let her breathe.
It might’ve gone on forever—if not for chance. At work, James shared lunch with a young apprentice eating meatballs and a salad suspiciously like his own.
“Where’d you get the meatballs?”
“The deli round the corner. Tastes better than my mum’s!” The lad grinned.
James’ stomach dropped. Too many coincidences. And then—the suspicion took root.
That evening, he ate in silence before asking the question. Sophie looked down.
“I… I was just tired. I thought you wouldn’t mind, as long as it was good…”
James stood. Walked over. Held her.
“I do mind. But you’re human, Soph. You’re allowed to be tired.”
She sniffed. He smiled.
“Truce?”
“Truce.”
And that night, instead of the usual spread, they ordered pizza, put on an old film, and for the first time in years, didn’t feel just like husband and wife… but like two people who still mattered to each other. And that—was enough to change everything.
