**A Kitchen Scandal: How Cabbage Rolls Wrecked a Marriage**
Today was exhausting. I dragged myself home from the supermarket, arms aching from two heavy bags. The damp evening air of the little town of Willowbrook clung to me, making the walk feel even longer. When I finally stumbled into the kitchen, I dropped the bags on the table and slumped into a chair, trying to catch my breath.
“Hey, Olivia, what’s for dinner?” Simon’s voice echoed from the doorway, his hands rubbing together like he was already imagining a feast.
“Simon, I just got in—I haven’t even thought about it,” I sighed, tension knotting my shoulders. “I’m shattered.”
“How about making some cabbage rolls?” he suggested with a casual grin, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.
I looked up at him, weariness and simmering frustration in my eyes. For a moment, I was quiet, gathering myself—then, before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out:
“You know what, Simon? We should get a divorce.”
“Divorce? Where’s this coming from?” He froze, confusion twisting his face.
“Because of your bloody cabbage rolls!” My voice shook with emotion.
“Cabbage rolls?” He stared at me like I’d lost my mind, completely missing the storm brewing inside me.
—
Ten months earlier
Reading time: 5 minutes
Source: Local gossip
Right after the wedding, Olivia and Simon sat down to discuss their finances. They thought they’d covered everything to make life in Willowbrook harmonious.
“We’re adults, Liv, and we’ll split everything fifty-fifty,” Simon declared confidently. “That way there’ll be no arguments.”
“I don’t know, Simon,” I hesitated. “In my last marriage, my husband covered more because he earned more.”
“And how well did that work out?” he smirked. “Besides, my ex-wife spent money like it grew on trees. No—equal shares mean equal shares.”
I’d hoped we’d pool our incomes, taking what we needed from a shared pot. But Simon was rigid, coldly practical.
“Groceries and bills, we split down the middle. The rest goes into savings for emergencies,” he explained. “We could divide household chores too, but that’s small fry—no need to nickel-and-dime everything.”
The arrangement grated on me. It didn’t feel fair, but I agreed, not wanting to start our marriage with a row. Yet as weeks passed, my patience wore thin. Simon adored hearty dinners—roasts, takeaway, greasy fry-ups—and the food budget he set ate nearly half my wages. I barely spent anything before: yoghurts, salads, the odd takeaway coffee. Now my money vanished into thin air.
“Your arrangement sounds bonkers,” my friend Emily said over tea. “You nibble on crackers while he inhales steak, but you split the bill?”
“It bothers me too,” I admitted, fiddling with the tablecloth. “But I agreed, and now I’m stuck. He’s practically eating my wages while hoarding his own.”
“Then buy your own food separately,” Emily suggested. “That’s fair.”
I’d thought the same but waited for Simon to suggest it. Instead, he saw no issue.
“What’s the problem?” he’d say whenever I brought it up.
“The problem is half my pay goes on food you choose!” I snapped once. “I can’t even afford a new lipstick anymore!”
“That’s marriage, Liv. Get used to it.” He waved me off, dismissive.
“I imagined it differently,” I muttered. “My first husband never made me feel like this.”
“Here we go—Mr. Perfect again!” Simon sneered. “If he was so great, why’d you divorce him?”
“We split because he cheated,” I said quietly, the words stinging.
“No surprise there,” he shot back. “Your cooking’s mediocre, the place is a mess, and all you do is whinge.”
His words cut deep. I wasn’t a Michelin-star chef, but I kept our home tidy and cooked daily. We hadn’t lived together before—just dated a few months and rushed into marriage. Distance made it romantic; reality exposed every flaw. I preferred veggie bakes and omelettes; Simon demanded pies, kebabs, and curries. I started cooking separate meals, but it drained my time and money—and his snide remarks just made it worse.
“You’re nearly 40, and you’re moaning to your mum that I don’t roll cabbage leaves right?” I snapped once.
“I’m just telling her how things are,” he shrugged. “She cooks better, anyway—you could learn something.”
I *could* cook. I just didn’t worship food like he did. Every discussion became a fight.
“Just admit you’re stingy!” he’d shout. “I’m not asking for caviar—just a proper Sunday roast!”
“Look at the numbers,” I pleaded once, showing him receipts. “Seventy percent of this is *your* food. If we’re splitting fairly, it should be proportional.”
“Didn’t realise you were this petty,” he scoffed. “No wonder your ex ran off.”
“Yours didn’t leave for fun, either,” I shot back. “At least I own my mistakes—you’re never wrong!”
After that, we barely spoke for days.
“This isn’t working,” I finally said. “We’re meant to be a team.”
“You don’t respect my views,” he muttered.
“Your views aren’t fair,” I insisted. “We built this all wrong.”
“Want me to pay for everything? Tough luck,” he said flatly. “Deal with it.”
I tried—for months—but one day, something broke. I couldn’t keep bankrolling him. We split food costs, but other expenses always fell on me. When the boiler broke, Simon shrugged.
“It’s my flat, so repairs are on you.”
I paid. I covered most of the shopping. Then one day, I snapped. This wasn’t marriage—it was a ledger of resentment.
“I’m sorry, Simon. I can’t do this anymore,” I said after another row. “We need space.”
“Walking out?” he sneered. “Fine, but don’t think you’ll squeeze money from me!”
I packed my bags and moved back to my parents’. A month passed—not one call. My hope died. I filed for divorce. Simon didn’t fight it. Soon, another woman was cooking in *his* kitchen.
Me? I’m in no rush. I need time to figure out what comes next.
