Page 73 of The Husband I Left

It’s not until I get back to my apartment that I realize there is a folded note taped to the bottom of the container. My hand shakes slightly as I pull it off and unfold it

You’ve always been the most beautiful woman in the room

I almost toss the whole thing in the trash right there. I don’t know what to do with this note, what to do with the emotions currently coursing through me. I place the container on the table and stare at it.

“This is ridiculous,” I finally tell myself. “It’s food. He made food. People make food for other people all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.”

I open it.

The smell hits me first, and my traitorous stomach rumbles. Inside is what looks like a chicken cutlet. It’s been pounded flat and breaded and fried to a perfect golden brown. Beside it, a neat mound of mashed potatoes, still steaming. And in the corner, a creamy cucumber salad.

I get a fork from the drawer. It looks good. It looks really good. The chicken is crispy at the edges; the potatoes are perfectly creamy, the cucumber salad is sprinkled with fresh dill.

I sniff it. It smells even better up close.

I take a bite.

The flavor explodes across my tongue, and I have to close my eyes. It’s good. It’s really, really good. The chicken is tender inside its crispy shell, seasoned perfectly. The potatoes are smooth and buttery. The cucumber salad is bright and cooling against the richness of the other two.

I don’t even bother to go and sit down. I devour the whole thing standing at the counter, and with each bite, a small, traitorous voice in the back of my head whispers: He made this. For you.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I say out loud. “It’s just food. And my mother did not raise me to let good food go to waste.”

Chapter 26

Genny

It’s Sunday dinner at my parents’ house. The table is set with the good china because, as my mother insists every week, what’s the point in having the dishes if you don’t use them? My parents’ dogs are under the table, and my younger brother Jake is sneaking them pieces of food when he thinks no one is looking. My father and older brother, Colin, are arguing about football. Down near the end of the table, my sister-in-law Summer wipes up a spilled drink and scolds her boys for being careless. The children are loud, and the adults are even louder. My mom has just discovered what Jake is doing and is telling him off. In short, it’s complete chaos and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Would you look at that,” Mom says as she glances over at me. “You’ve cleared your plate. Here, have some more.”

She doesn’t wait for my answer. She’s already up and moving. The spatula descends, and suddenly my plate is hosting a second slab of meatloaf. I stare at it, willing my stomach to make room.

“Mom, I really don’t—”

“Let a mother feed her daughter, for goodness’ sake,” she cuts me off. “All week I worry about you, eating alone, living on takeout. You need all the home cooking you can get.”

I smile and pick up my fork. My mother’s meatloaf has not changed a single bit for the entirety of my life, which is to say it has always been dry, dense, and seasoned with only the most minuscule amounts of salt and pepper. And ketchup, of course. I take a bite and chew. And chew. And chew some more. Cooking for her family is how my mother shows love. Eating what she’s cooked is how we show love.

“You haven’t said much tonight, Genny,” Mom says, as she settles back into her chair and takes a sip of her wine.

“Just tired,” I say, swallowing with some effort. “Having some headaches with a grant proposal at work right now, but I’m sure it’ll be cleared up soon.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you eating real food,” Mom says as she watches me eat. “I know you’re tired of my harping on it, but eating takeout all the time just isn’t good for you, Genny. I wish you’d let me teach you how to make a few simple meals.”

“Actually,” I say, the words out before I can catch them, “I haven’t had takeout in over a week.”

Mom’s face lights up. “Really? What have you made?”

“No, I haven’t—” I stop. The words were on the tip of my tongue: Oliver is making me dinner every night. I bite them back. “Someone’s been cooking for me.”

Dad stops mid-sentence about the Patriots’ draft picks. Collin’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth. Even Liz stops bouncing her toddler Landon, her attention suddenly laser focused on me.

“Someone’s cooking for you,” Liz repeats. “Would you like to elaborate on that, Genevieve?”

I stare at my meatloaf and wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “It’s nothing, really. My neighbor, Mr. Hill, has been teaching one of the guys in the building to cook. They’ve been giving me the leftovers.”

“Leftovers,” Summer says, her voice lilting upward at the end. She exchanges a look with Liz that makes my skin prickle. “That’s awfully sweet of them. Almost sounds like someone might like you.”