**”Kitchen Catastrophe: How Cabbage Rolls Wrecked a Marriage”**
Olivia, exhausted and frazzled, trudged into her house in the quaint town of Oakwood, clutching two heavy shopping bags. She dumped them onto the kitchen table with a sigh, collapsing into a chair as rain drizzled outside, amplifying her weariness.
“Hey, Liv, what’s for dinner?” called out Simon, rubbing his hands together eagerly as he appeared in the doorway.
“Simon, I’ve just walked in—haven’t even *thought* about dinner,” she huffed, tension coiling in her shoulders. “I’m knackered.”
“How about some cabbage rolls?” he suggested cheerfully, as if rolling minced meat in cabbage leaves was as simple as boiling an egg.
Olivia lifted her eyes, filled with quiet despair and simmering irritation. She took a deep breath, then—before she even realised it—blurted out:
“You know what, Simon? We should get divorced.”
“*What*? Divorced? Where’s this coming from?” Simon froze, his face a picture of bewilderment.
“Because of your *bloody* cabbage rolls!” she nearly shouted, her voice trembling.
“Because of *cabbage rolls*?” He stared at her as if she’d lost the plot entirely.
**Ten Months Earlier**
Right after their wedding, Olivia and Simon sat down to discuss finances. In their minds, they’d covered everything—Oakwood would be their little haven of marital bliss.
“We’re adults, Liv. We’ll split everything fifty-fifty,” Simon declared confidently. “No room for arguments.”
“I don’t know…” Olivia hesitated. “My ex-husband earned more, so he covered most expenses.”
“Did *that* save your marriage?” Simon smirked sarcastically. “My ex-wife burned through money like it was confetti. No, *equal* means equal.”
Olivia had imagined a joint account—shared expenses, shared life. But Simon had a spreadsheet-like mind.
“We split groceries and bills down the middle,” he explained. “Emergency fund for the rest. And we *could* divide chores, but let’s not nickle and dime each other, yeah?”
The system chafed. Olivia nibbled on yoghurt and salads, while Simon devoured steaks, takeaways, and enough bacon to feed a small village. His half of the grocery budget was devouring *her* paycheck.
“This is bonkers,” her friend Emily said over tea. “You’re eating cucumber sticks while he orders tandoori, but you’re paying the same?”
“It’s not ideal,” Olivia admitted, fiddling with the tablecloth. “But I agreed, and now I’m stuck. He’s *eating* my salary while stacking his own.”
“Just buy your own food separately,” Emily suggested.
Olivia had considered it—but waited for Simon to suggest it first. Naturally, he never did.
“What’s the issue?” he’d say whenever she tried to bring it up.
“My *entire* grocery budget goes on *your* steak nights!” she’d protest. “I can’t even afford moisturiser anymore!”
“That’s married life, Liv. Get used to it,” he’d shrug.
“Married life shouldn’t leave me skint!”
“Oh, here we go—comparing me to Saint Ex-Husband again!”
“We divorced because he *cheated*, not over *mince prices*,” she muttered.
“Bet he *wished* you could cook,” Simon sneered.
That stung. Olivia *did* cook—just not mounds of stodge. She made quiches, roasted veg, wholesome meals. Simon, however, acted like a man deprived if she skipped gravy.
“You’re nearly forty, and you *moan* to your mum that I won’t stuff cabbage leaves?” Olivia snapped once.
“Mum’s a *proper* cook. You could learn a thing or two,” he shot back.
Things came to a head when Olivia started collecting receipts. After a month, she presented the evidence: 70% of their grocery spend was *his* pies, beers, and ready meals.
“If we’re splitting, let’s do it *fairly*. My salads aren’t costing £80 a week!”
“Didn’t peg you for a penny-pincher,” Simon grumbled. “No wonder your ex scarpered.”
“Yours didn’t leave for *your* charm, either!”
After that, they spoke in frosty monosyllables for days.
“We can’t go on like this,” Olivia finally said.
“You never *listen*,” Simon countered.
“Because your ‘logic’ leaves me broke!”
“Fine. Want me to pay for *everything*? Dream on.”
Olivia lasted a few more months—then cracked. The final straw? The boiler broke. Simon refused to pay, citing, “It’s *my* house. You sort it.”
She paid. Again.
Then one evening, staring at another mountain of minced beef, she snapped.
“I’m done, Simon.”
“*Seriously*? Over *food*?”
“No. Over *respect*.”
She packed a suitcase. Simon didn’t call. A month later, she filed for divorce. He didn’t contest it—just moved his new girlfriend in by Easter.
Olivia? She took a breather. Somewhere between the cabbage rolls and the spreadsheets, she’d forgotten what a *real* partnership looked like. And next time? No shared shopping lists.
