The kitchen smelled of steamed kale and hopelessness. For six months, this had been my laboratory.
After David’s massive coronary, the doctor had been clear: “Change his lifestyle, or plan his funeral.” I chose the lifestyle. I threw out the salt shaker. I banished the butter. I learned to cook chicken breast so plain it could have passed for office supplies. I spent months cooking him strict, salt-free, healthy meals to save his life.
David hated it. He hated me for enforcing it.
“This tastes like wet paper,” he would grumble, pushing a plate of quinoa away. “He complained every day“. He acted like a prisoner of war, and I was the warden. I took the abuse because I loved him. I thought I was fighting for our future.
Then came the laundry day that changed everything.
I was emptying the pockets of his jeans before tossing them in the wash. Usually, it was just lint or gum wrappers. This time, a crumpled piece of thermal paper fell out.
I smoothed it out. It was a receipt from Burger Barn.
“Double Bacon Burger,” it read. Dated yesterday.
My hands shook. A Double Bacon Burger wasn’t just a slip-up; for a man with his arteries, it was a suicide attempt. I felt a surge of panic. Was he trying to kill himself? Was he that unhappy with the steamed fish?
I decided to intervene. The next day, when he said he was going to his “cardiac rehab support group,” I grabbed my keys.
I followed him.
He didn’t drive to the hospital. He drove to the other side of town, pulling into the parking lot of a greasy spoon diner—the kind with neon signs and menus laminated in grease.
I parked three spots away and watched. He didn’t go in alone. A woman got out of the car next to him. I recognized the blonde hair instantly. It was Jessica. His ex-girlfriend from college. The one he always said was “crazy” but “fun.”
They walked in together, laughing. I crept up to the window, shielding my eyes from the glare.
There they were in a booth. David was laughing harder than he had in years. And in front of him sat a monstrosity of grease, cheese, and bacon. He took a huge bite, juice running down his chin, and Jessica wiped it away with a napkin, smiling adoringly.
The realization hit me harder than the smell of fryer oil.
He wasn’t cheating on his diet—he was cheating on me.
The burger wasn’t a death wish; it was a date. He was risking his life not for the food, but for the company. While I was at home measuring sodium levels to the milligram to keep his heart beating, he was out here giving that heart to the woman who helped him destroy it.
I didn’t storm in. I didn’t make a scene. I felt a sudden, profound sense of release.
I drove home. I took the chicken thawing on the counter and threw it in the trash. I took the salt-free spice blends and dumped them. I ordered a pizza—extra cheese, extra pepperoni—and poured myself a glass of wine.
When David came home hours later, smelling of mints and deception, he walked into the kitchen expecting his usual grim dinner.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked, feigning the usual annoyance. “More cardboard chicken?”
“Nothing,” I said, taking a bite of my pizza.
“What do you mean, nothing? You know I have to eat on a schedule.”
“I know,” I said, smiling for the first time in months. “I stopped cooking.“.
“But… my heart,” he stammered. “Who’s going to make sure I don’t die?”
I looked him dead in the eye. “Ask Jessica.”
His face went white.
“I’m done saving a life you’re so eager to throw away,” I said, picking up my wine glass. “Let her drive him to the ER next time.“.
I walked out of the kitchen, leaving him standing there with his failing heart and his empty stomach, realizing that the most vital organ he had lost wasn’t his heart—it was his wife.
