Daniel came home late. Without a word, he kicked off his shoes in the hallway, hung up his coat, and silently headed to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he sat at the kitchen table, where a plate of chicken stew with peas—his wife Emily’s signature dish—awaited him. Beside it sat a seafood salad. He picked up his fork, poked at the salad for a moment, then suddenly turned to her.
“Tell me the truth… Where did you get this?” he asked quietly but firmly.
Emily froze, the teapot hovering mid-pour. Her eyes flickered with unease.
They’d been married over thirty years. If asked to rate their marriage out of a hundred, Emily would’ve given it a solid fifty. There’d been love and frustration, joy and drudgery, bright moments and weary routines. A normal life. And Daniel—though stubborn, though difficult—was a good man. Loyal, dependable, hardworking.
The turning point had come last spring, when Emily fell ill. The doctor called it simple exhaustion, built up over years. Daniel took her home in a taxi—they’d long stopped fixing their own car, every spare penny going toward their daughter Charlotte’s wedding loan.
Charlotte had just married, wanting a wedding “straight out of a film.” Even though the dress turned out odd and the cake “like chewing gum,” in Daniel’s words, her parents endured it. All that mattered was their daughter’s happiness.
After the wedding, the newlyweds moved into a flat inherited from the groom’s grandfather, while Daniel and Emily kept paying off the loan, scraping by with their ageing car, worn-out appliances, and endless fatigue.
Emily taught English and took private lessons. Daniel worked as a mechanic at a factory. He refused canteen meals, burgers, takeaways—only home-cooked food! Hot, fresh, varied.
Emily never argued, though she could barely stand after work. One day, she snapped:
“How am I supposed to make you a full dinner—starter, main, salad, dessert—every night? I’m not a machine.”
But Daniel would recount tales of his great-grandmother, who worked the fields, fed a family of eight, and still found time for choir practice.
Emily just grew tired. One day, stopping by the new deli near their house for fresh bread, she spotted a display of salads. Suddenly, she heard herself say:
“I’ll take the ‘Ocean Treasures,’ the large one…”
That evening, dinner was shepherd’s pie, a quiche… and that salad.
“Something new! Tastes just like homemade,” Daniel praised.
Emily said nothing. And so it became her secret: if she was too tired, she’d buy from the deli. Homemade-quality, delicious, a bit pricier—but at least she could breathe.
It might’ve stayed that way, if not for chance. At work, Daniel shared lunch with a young apprentice. The lad was eating meatballs and a salad suspiciously similar to Daniel’s.
“Where’d you get those?”
“From the deli round the corner. Better than home cooking!” the apprentice grinned.
Daniel grew wary. Too many coincidences. And then, suspicion took root…
That evening, he ate in silence before asking the question. Emily lowered her eyes.
“I… I was just tired. I thought you wouldn’t care, as long as it tasted good…”
Daniel stood. Walked over. Held her.
“I do care. But you’re human too, Em. You’ve every right to be tired.”
She sniffled. He smiled.
“Truce?”
“Truce.”
That night, instead of the usual spread, they ordered pizza, put on an old film, and for the first time in years, felt not just like husband and wife… but like a couple where both mattered. And that was enough to change everything.
