I married Olivia just six months after our first date. She immediately struck me as not only stunningly beautiful but also someone who could effortlessly manage a household and care deeply for her man. Whenever we’d attend a Broadway show in New York, Olivia would carefully inspect my appearance from head to toe, correcting even the smallest imperfection in my attire. Dining out in Manhattan’s finest restaurants, she confidently recommended dishes, showcasing a sophisticated palate and impressive culinary knowledge.
Before tying the knot, we lived in separate apartments—I had mine in Brooklyn, and Olivia hers on the Upper West Side. A few nights a week, I stayed over at her place. Our meals together back then were simple, almost forgettable. Food wasn’t our priority; we had plenty of other things to occupy our minds.
Then, suddenly, we were married—officially and practically. In the first few weeks, Olivia quietly hid the fact that all the delicious meals she served me for dinner were actually ordered from upscale restaurants nearby. Thankfully, New York’s delivery services were always reliable. Wanting her to feel financially unrestricted, I gave her a duplicate of my bank card, letting her spend freely without any questions. Yet, just one week later, I couldn’t suppress the question burning inside me:
“Olivia, are you cooking these meals yourself, or are they deliveries?”
She blushed deeply, clearly embarrassed:
“Yes, they’re delivered. Honestly, I barely know how to cook—and frankly, I don’t even enjoy it.”
The revelation hit me like lightning on a clear day. My own mother had always spoiled my father, my brother, and me with lovingly prepared homemade dishes, served steaming-hot straight from the stove—not reheated restaurant food. The benefits of home cooking went without saying, as did its cost-effectiveness. Of course, dining out occasionally was fine, but every single night?
I gently tried persuading my wife that our family life simply wouldn’t work without homemade cooking, but my arguments failed miserably.
The most Olivia did after our uncomfortable conversation was start buying ready-made frozen dinners, pasta, ravioli, and other questionable supermarket offerings. My saving grace during the weekdays was the excellent cafeteria at my downtown office, where the chef prepared delicious, nearly homemade lunches.
After three months, I was utterly tired of Olivia’s indifference toward our kitchen. Yet, I didn’t want to stir up conflict so soon into married life. There was another reason as well: our apartment was always impeccably clean, and my shirts hung neatly ironed in the closet alongside clothes that Olivia had carefully folded with her own hands.
Still, I decided to act. I bought several glossy, enticing cookbooks from a trendy bookstore in Greenwich Village, grabbed a bouquet of fresh roses, a bottle of champagne, and went home fully intending to convince Olivia to finally use our brand-new, fully-equipped kitchen for more than boiling water and reheating frozen foods.
Olivia’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the flowers, but the moment she spotted the cookbooks, her smile vanished instantly:
“Oh, I see… And here I was thinking you brought me flowers just because you loved me.”
Our conversation immediately took a sour turn. Dinner that evening—ordered pizza—left me feeling depressed. So, right before the neighborhood supermarket closed, I hurried out, returning with several grocery bags filled with a variety of fresh ingredients, just to get things started. I carefully placed them into our huge stainless-steel refrigerator and kindly asked Olivia to attempt cooking something the next day. She merely shrugged, making it clear we’d already covered that topic enough times.
That’s when I knew it was time for drastic measures. Sneaking onto the balcony for a smoke break, I secretly called my bank and had them temporarily disable Olivia’s duplicate card.
The next afternoon, in the middle of a busy day at work, I received a frantic call from my wife:
“I don’t understand what’s going on—my card isn’t working!”
I calmly asked her:
“What were you trying to buy?”
Olivia hesitated and quietly stammered:
“Well…um…”
I had no time or desire to play cat-and-mouse games, so I straightforwardly confessed:
“Olivia, the bank card will stay blocked until we start eating properly at home. I’m sorry.”
That evening, I returned home to find Olivia’s hurt expression—but also something else. On our dining table sat a slightly burnt roast chicken accompanied by overcooked potatoes, neither of them looking particularly appealing. Beside it stood a salad that only vaguely resembled something Mediterranean. Ignoring her visibly wounded pride, I swept Olivia up in my arms and carried her enthusiastically to the kitchen, exclaiming joyfully:
“Oh God, I’ve dreamed about homemade chicken and potatoes!”
Olivia, still feigning offense, gently pushed herself out of my embrace and murmured sheepishly:
“It’s a little burnt, though…”
I laughed warmly:
“Nonsense! I’ll happily eat every bite!”
Of course, both chicken and potatoes were far from perfect, but I didn’t dare criticize the “chef” even slightly, afraid to discourage her newfound enthusiasm.
Exactly one week later, I quietly called the bank and reactivated Olivia’s bank card.
