Cooked Meals, Cooked Lies
Jack Cooke—my husband, who'd never so much as scrambled an egg—suddenly went full kitchen freak. He bought a ton of pots and spatulas, then spent all day just... polishing them.
When I called him out, he shrugged. "I like things clean. That a crime now?"
Behind him? A mountain of dirty socks.
Then it got weirder. He dragged all the kitchen stuff into our bedroom.
At night, he'd get weird with a dishcloth. Like, disturbingly weird.
I was done. I asked for a divorce.
Jack stormed into a private dining room and shredded the papers right in front of our investors.
"You're seriously ending our marriage over this? Kinda dramatic, don't you think?"
I didn’t blink. “I gave up my spot for your pots and pans. A little thanks wouldn’t kill you.”