My Dinner With André

After returning to my in-laws' home for Christmas Eve dinner with my wife, Winona Zachary, only my mother-in-law, Jenny Stroll, was busy while the others were all on their phones. I had just sat down when Jenny started cursing, "They just sit there and wait to eat. They didn't even offer to help. Are they trying to exhaust me?" She would even slam the pots and pans from time to time. "How heartless for young people to let an elderly person like me serve them!" I felt a bit restless and nudged Winona. "Maybe you should go help her?" Jenny's insults escalated after hearing that. Remembering it was my first time spending Christmas at my in-laws' house and not wanting things to get too ugly, I got up to help. However, Jenny dumped everything on me as soon as I entered the kitchen. Suppressing my anger, I finished cooking dinner, served it, and got ready to eat. Jenny suddenly spoke up. "Wait, we need to settle some accounts before we eat."

After coming home from work, I see my favorite dishes laid out all over the table. The liquor is warmed up, and its aroma is the type that I like. But I don't feel the slightest bit grateful toward my thoughtful and gentle wife. My gaze passes through her and lands on the wall behind her. There hangs a memorial portrait of her…

When my husband and I drop by his childhood home for Christmas dinner, my mother-in-law, Melissa Potter, is the only one busying away in the kitchen. Everyone else is on their phones. I've just taken a seat when Melissa begins to lecture me. "What, are you just going to sit your ass down and wait for food to come? Don't you know when to lend a helping hand? Am I supposed to exhaust myself for your sake?" From time to time, she keeps rattling the pots and pans loudly. "I can't believe those with healthy bodies want a 70-year-old like me to serve them! Does anyone here have any conscience?" Feeling a little uneasy, I gave my husband a tiny nudge. "Why don't you help Mom out?" After Melissa hears my suggestion, she gets even more pissed off. Thinking that this is my first Christmas with my in-laws, I don't really want to cause a scene here, so I get up to my feet and help her out. But the moment I enter the kitchen, Melissa delegates all the tasks to me. I endure my fury as much as I can while finishing the Christmas dinner preparations. When I'm about to head back to the dining table and dig in, Melissa suddenly speaks up. "Hold up. We got scores to settle before dinner."

During the holiday break, my wife, Jayda Glover—the hospital's star surgeon and Chief of Cardiac Surgery—suddenly "had to work overtime." Our third-anniversary hot springs trip? Canceled. That night, I was scrolling social media when a post from her intern, Dillon Tripp, popped up. My ice-queen wife always said her "golden hands" were only for patients. Apparently, they cook now too. She was in a cartoon apron, calmly chopping vegetables. The caption read: [Thank you, Dr. Glover, for personally cooking to comfort me after I was bullied by a patient's family!] I tapped like and left a comment. [White coat to apron. Very domestic.] Ten minutes later, the whole hospital knew Cardiac Surgery's untouchable beauty had broken her rule—just to cook for a younger guy. Jayda called. Dishes clattered in the background. "You really had to embarrass me in public? He got hot water thrown on him by a patient's family today. I was just doing my duty as his mentor! "A pampered professor's kid like you wouldn't know the first thing about how hard broke med students have it. "Apologize to Dillon right now. Otherwise, no matter how much you beg later, I'm not going on that trip with you!" Beg her? I looked at the divorce papers that had just arrived on the coffee table and let out a quiet laugh. I wasn't begging anymore. From this moment on, we were strangers.

I ran into my boss when I was complaining to my best friend about how he actively made the workplace hostile for me. He fired off a barrage of questions, "Where's the annual report? Where's the script for the speech? I can't believe you have the gall to enjoy a meal when you have a mountain of work to do!" That was it. I slammed the table. "It's due tomorrow! What's the rush? Are you going to hold a funeral for yourself tomorrow?" My boss stormed off in a huff. I asked for the bill, but the waiter came with two. My table came up to 60 dollars, but the other ran up to 3,750. "Your boyfriend said you're paying for both. Cash or credit, miss?" Shawn Goodall put that impossible bill on my tab and called himself my boyfriend? Unbelievable! I called him, utterly incensed. Yet, he had the gall to say, "Get the receipt and claim it from finance." Then, he hung up. The waiter was going to call the cops if I didn't pay up, so I had no choice but to accept this bitter defeat. I was trying to claim the money the next day, but the cops arrested me instead. "Shawn Goodall died at midnight and was found in his house. You're his girlfriend and the last person he met. You're coming with us."

During our New Year’s Eve dinner, I told my family that my company was not giving out year-end bonuses. The table went silent. Even the TV host counting down to midnight suddenly sounded grating. My husband and daughter slammed the table in frustration. “No year-end bonus?! How are we supposed to pay the mortgage and the car loan? I didn’t marry you so you could live off me!” “Other moms either buy designer bags or send money. You’re the most useless one. You can’t even bring home a $100,000 bonus.” My in-laws sat there with dark looks on their faces and said nothing. I looked at their self-righteous faces and felt a lump in my throat. All these years, every expense in this family was paid with the money I earned from late nights, overtime, and project commissions. But all they could see was the $100,000 bonus I did not bring home. “If you can’t make any money, then get out!” My husband grabbed my arm and pushed me toward the door. My daughter was not satisfied and kicked me on the lower back. I did not turn around. I took out my phone and booked the presidential suite at a downtown five-star hotel. My bank account had just received a $1 million dividend payout. It was true that I did not get a year-end bonus. But I got promoted to management. From this day onward, I would receive $1 million in dividends every year.