Andrew came home late. Without a word, he kicked off his shoes in the hallway, hung up his coat, and silently made his way to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he sat at the kitchen table where a plate of chicken stew and 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 face her.
“Tell me the truth,” he asked quietly, though his tone was firm. “Where did you get this salad?”
Emily froze, the teapot hovering mid-pour. Something uneasy flickered in her eyes.
They had been married for over thirty years. If asked to rate their marriage out of a hundred, Emily would’ve given it a solid fifty. They’d had it all—love and irritation, joy and drudgery, bright moments and gruelling routines. Just an ordinary life. And Andrew, stubborn and difficult as he was, was a good man. Loyal, dependable, hardworking.
Everything shifted last spring when Emily collapsed. The doctor called it simple exhaustion, built up over years. Andrew took her home in a taxi—their own car had long been neglected, every spare penny going toward their daughter Sophie’s wedding loan.
Sophie had just gotten married, and she’d wanted the wedding “just like in the films.” Even though the dress turned out odd and the cake—Andrew’s words—”tasted like chewing gum,” they endured it. All that mattered was their daughter’s happiness.
After the wedding, the young couple moved into the groom’s inherited flat, while Andrew and Emily kept chipping away at the loan, scraping by with their battered car, worn-out appliances, and endless fatigue.
Emily taught English and took private tutoring sessions. Andrew worked as a mechanic at the factory. He refused canteen meals, burgers, takeaway—only home-cooked food! Hot, fresh, varied.
Emily never argued, though after work she could barely stand. One day, she snapped.
“How am I supposed to manage a starter, main, salad, and dessert for you every night? I’m not a machine!”
But Andrew only countered with tales of his great-grandmother, who’d worked the fields, fed a family of eight, and still found time for amateur dramatics.
Emily was just tired. Then one evening, stopping by a new deli near their house for fresh bread, she spotted a counter of pre-made salads. Before she could second-guess herself, she heard herself say, “The seafood one, please—large.”
That night, dinner was stuffed peppers, a pie… and that same salad.
“Blimey, something new! Tastes just like homemade,” Andrew praised.
Emily said nothing. And so began her secret: when she was too worn out, she bought dinner from the deli. Still hearty, still tasty—a bit pricier, but worth it for the chance to breathe.
It might’ve stayed that way if not for chance. At work, Andrew shared his lunch break with a young trainee, who was eating meatballs and a salad that looked suspiciously familiar.
“Where’d you get the meatballs?”
“From the deli round the corner. Better than my mum’s!” the lad chuckled.
Andrew stiffened. Too many coincidences. And then, suspicion took root.
That evening, he ate in silence before finally asking the question. Emily lowered her gaze.
“I… I was just tired. I thought you wouldn’t mind, as long as it tasted good…”
Andrew stood. Stepped closer. Wrapped his arms around her.
“I do mind. But you’re human, Em. You’re allowed to be tired.”
She sniffled. 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—felt less like husband and wife, and more like two people who still truly mattered to each other. That was all it took to change everything.
