They all say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. For thirty years, I believed them. Every single day, I’d craft new dishes for my husband, David. His stomach was weak, so I was careful with every pinch of salt. Then came the storm. I saw him with my own eyes, his arm wrapped around his old flame, Linda, in a cheap diner, the two of them lovingly sharing a single ice cream cone. I returned home, soaked to the bone, only to stumble upon his hidden medical report: stomach cancer. So, not only had he betrayed me, but he was also planning to let me wither away by his side, none the wiser, so he could cash in my life insurance and run off with her. The worst part? The absolute joke of it all? He had the audacity to ask Linda to learn my recipes, to “take over for me” when I was gone. Fine. If he wanted to eat from two kitchens, I’d be more than happy to plan his menu. If Linda made him crab, I’d serve a rich tomato stew. If she seared him lamb chops, I’d prepare a refreshing watermelon salad. Let’s just see how long his broken body could take it. 1 After I retired, I started posting videos of my cooking online. My followers always said a talent like mine shouldn't be confined to a home kitchen. Last month, someone recommended an international culinary competition. All expenses paid, a trip around the world, a huge cash prize for the winner, and even funding to open your own restaurant. It was an incredible offer, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn't tempted. But my hand hovered over the application page for what felt like an eternity. I just couldn't bring myself to click. My husband, David, had a terribly weak stomach. He needed constant, meticulous care. For thirty years, my carefully prepared meals were the only thing keeping him going. Without me, he wouldn't have made it this long. I treated him like a king, but he treated me like the hired help. If a dish was too salty or too bland, if the porridge was too thick or too thin, he’d throw his chopsticks down and demand I remake it. For his health, I endured it. For thirty years. This morning, he surprised me by asking me to buy a chicken to make a broth. A warmth spread through my chest. He never liked chicken soup—but I loved it. And today was my birthday. But just as I bought the chicken, the sky opened up in a torrential downpour. I quickly called him, but he just screamed at me. "You idiot! Can't you do one simple thing right?" He hung up. The little warmth I’d felt was instantly extinguished. I ran home through the rain, but my feet froze when I saw the diner downstairs. There was David, huddled under a single umbrella with his old flame, Linda, the two of them cooing as they shared an ice cream cone. David wrapped his arm around her. "I had the old woman make you some chicken soup. I'll bring it over tonight to help you warm up." Linda pouted playfully. "Who wants chicken soup? I want soda and ice cream. I want to be your sweet little baby." "Of course," he cooed back. "You'll always be my sweet little baby." I stood there in the pouring rain, smelling the stale cooking oil on my clothes and looking at the blisters on my hands. In that moment, I finally understood just how foolish I’d been for thirty years. When I got home, I was soaked through, but I didn't bother changing. I went straight to the bedroom and started packing. The competition organizers had said there was a flight tonight. Just then, David walked in. As always, his first words to me were, "Hurry up and make dinner." I ignored him, continuing to pack my suitcase. When he saw I wasn't moving, his voice rose. "Are you deaf? I'm talking to you! Did you get the chicken? Get in there and make the soup!" I zipped my suitcase shut and finally looked up at him. "I'm leaving. The house is all yours." He stared at me for a second, then his face twisted in anger. "What's gotten into you? So I didn't pick you up in the rain, and now you're throwing a fit? I was busy helping a friend!" 2 I stared at the corner of his mouth, where a faint smear of ice cream remained. "A friend? What friend?" He licked his lips reflexively. "Just an old friend. You wouldn't know her." "The doctor said your spleen is weak. You can't have cold things. Next time you and Linda have a date, maybe you should eat something else." With that, I grabbed my suitcase to leave, but he lunged forward and seized my arm. "You were following me! Have you no shame?" I ripped my arm from his grasp. "You're asking me about shame?" He faltered for a moment, then, unbelievably, he smirked. "Yeah, I saw Linda. So what? Can't old friends catch up? Why are you so damn paranoid?" I looked at his smug, uncaring face and remembered the time I’d served him soup that was slightly too cool. He’d slammed his bowl on the table and screamed at me all night. Now, to please Linda, he was ignoring his doctor’s orders. Suddenly, the fire in my chest fizzled out. It felt like even being angry was a waste of energy. I didn't say another word. I just picked up my suitcase and walked out of that house without looking back. On the way to the airport, he called me relentlessly. I ignored every call. A few minutes later, my son called. "Mom, what are you doing? Where are you going to go without Dad? I'm out of state, I can't take care of you!" "Don't worry," I said flatly. "I won't be a burden to you." I had just hung up when my daughter's call came through. I sighed, speaking before she could. "I already told you, you don't need to worry about me!" There was a pause. "Mom, what are you talking about? I got a raise, and I wanted to take you out for a nice dinner. It's your birthday." Hearing her words, the tears I’d been holding back finally broke free. I poured out all the hurt and humiliation from the day. The line was quiet for a few seconds. "Mom," she said, her voice firm. "You go. Don't worry about a thing. Even if you lose the competition, it doesn't matter. I'll take care of you from now on." I clutched the phone tighter, a wave of relief washing over me. At least I still had my daughter. "I promise you, honey, I'm going to win. You just wait for me." At the airport, the texts from David started flooding in: "You're sixty years old, stop acting like a child! It was just a damn ice cream cone! Get back here and make dinner, I'm starving!" I was done with his nonsense. I turned off my phone. But as I reached the gate, a staff member stopped me. "Ma'am, airline policy requires passengers over sixty to present a recent health report before boarding." "But I'm in perfect health! Look, I can carry this heavy suitcase with no problem. I'm fine, really." "I'm sorry, but it's the rule." The competition organizer tried to help. "There's another flight tomorrow morning. Why don't you go home and get the report?" I gazed at the boarding gate and sighed heavily. Fine. One more night. As soon as the sun came up, I would be free. I heard the sound of laughter as I approached my front door. When I pushed it open, the scene inside made me freeze. David and Linda were on my bed, their clothes in disarray. Linda scrambled to her feet, frantically straightening her shirt. "Susan, don't get the wrong idea! I was just making David some dinner. You should have some, too." I let out a cold laugh. "No, thank you. I'm afraid I might catch something." "What the hell are you talking about?" David snapped. "If it wasn't for Linda, I would have starved! You've got a lot of nerve coming back here! I thought you were so tough." I ignored him and started searching for my health report. He kept yelling. "Since you're back, you better start behaving! You pull that face with me again, and you won't see a single penny from me!" Linda awkwardly picked up her purse. "Well, since Susan's back, I should probably get going." 3 David rushed to see her out. I heard their hushed voices from the doorway. "David, you should go check on her," Linda whispered. "I think she's looking for that health report." "Let her find it! Maybe when she sees she has terminal stomach cancer, she'll finally shut up and stay by my side where she belongs." "What do you mean? You mean you still have feelings for her?" "Of course not! While she's alive, she's a free maid. When she's dead, I get a fat insurance payout. I'm going to use her until there's nothing left!" I stared at the report in my hands. My own name, my own diagnosis: mid-stage stomach cancer. My mind went blank, and my hands started to tremble uncontrollably. The man I had painstakingly cared for for thirty years didn't just see me as a free maid. He was actively waiting for me to die. I looked at the pot of chicken soup still simmering on the stove, and a cold resolve settled over me. If that’s how he wanted to play it, then I would stay. And I would put my heart and soul into every single meal I made from now on. The moment David walked back in, I ladled a bowl of chicken soup and placed it in front of him. "Drink this while it's hot. I even added a few slices of ginseng for you." He eyed me with suspicion. "What's this all about?" I let out a soft sigh. "You're right, I overreacted today. It was foolish to make such a scene over an ice cream cone." A smug grin spread across his face. "It's about time you came to your senses. Besides, where would you go without me?" My voice cracked as I replied, "You're right. At my age, where else could I go? This house is all I have." I pushed the soup towards him. He took it and drank the entire bowl in one gulp. I reached for a napkin to wipe his mouth, but he shoved my hand away. "Pathetic. From now on, just stick to your cooking and stay out of my business." I nodded. "Don't worry. I'll be sure to put my heart into every meal." As the words left my mouth, he clutched his stomach. "Ow! Why does my stomach suddenly hurt so much?" Watching him stumble towards the bathroom, I clenched the empty bowl in my hands. Ginseng and ice cream. That was just the appetizer. David, your reckoning is coming. From the day I "surrendered," David became even more brazen. At first, he would meet Linda in secret. Now, he brought her right into our home. "You need to teach Linda how to cook properly," he told me, his tone matter-of-fact. "That way, when you're gone, she can take over for me." I gripped the spatula so hard my nails dug into my palm. The old bastard! I wasn't even dead yet, and he was already training my replacement. Linda chimed in with a sickeningly sweet smile. "David always says what an amazing cook you are. If you teach me, I can help out and you can finally get some rest." The old me would have sent them packing with a hot pan. But now, I just smiled and nodded. "Of course. I'd be happy to. Just tell me what you want to learn." And so, David began eating from two kitchens. He’d have lunch at Linda’s, then come home for the dinner I prepared. On the first day, I taught Linda how to make spicy crab. That evening, I served him a hearty beef and tomato stew. On the second day, I showed her how to pan-sear lamb chops. For dinner, I made a chilled watermelon and lotus seed soup. On the third day, I taught her a simple spinach stir-fry. That night, I made him scrambled eggs with loofah squash. In just three days, David's face turned as sallow as old newspaper. He spent most of his time clutching the toilet, moaning in pain. The doctor couldn't find anything wrong with him, just advised him to watch his diet and avoid street food. Hearing this, David became even more dedicated to eating our home-cooked meals. 4 A week later, he was nothing but skin and bones. That day, Linda stewed beef for him. I, on the other hand, prepared only a small plate of sugar-roasted chestnuts. When he came home that night, he slammed his briefcase down and flew into a rage. "The doctor told me I need to eat well to protect my stomach, and this is the crap you serve me?" I slowly peeled a chestnut, my voice low. "Do you remember what day it is?" "What day?" "It's our thirtieth wedding anniversary." I pushed the peeled chestnut towards him. "The day we got our marriage license, you peeled them for me just like this. You said our life together would always be as sweet as these chestnuts." He scoffed, his face a mask of impatience. "We're almost seventy. You really think I have time for this sentimental garbage? Just go make some real food!" I rose slowly, my eyes locked on his. "Do you know why you've been having such terrible diarrhea lately?" "Spicy crab with tomato stew. Seared lamb with watermelon soup. It was all part of a menu I carefully designed, just for you." He shot to his feet, stumbling back a few steps. "What are you saying? You've been poisoning me?" I just stared at him in silence. He scrambled to the sink and began to retch violently. "You venomous bitch! I'm calling the police!" A cold smile touched my lips. "Go ahead. Call them right now." I slapped the life insurance policy down on the table. "Let's have the police see who bought a massive policy on me. Let them see who deliberately hid my cancer diagnosis from me. Let them see who's been praying for me to die every single day!" He stared at me for a few seconds, and then a slow, cruel smile spread across his face. "So, you know. No point in hiding it anymore." "That's right, I'm waiting for you to die. But I didn't give you terminal cancer. You can only blame your own bad luck for that." "I suggest you go back to being a good little wife and taking care of me. You wouldn't want to make this a bigger mess, would you? If you're good, I might even buy you a nice burial plot." I looked at his disgusting face and started to laugh. I pulled another health report from my bag and laid it in front of him. "Such a shame. I went back to the hospital a few days ago. Turns out, they made a mistake. They mixed up our names on the reports. The one with stomach cancer is you, David. Not me." He snatched the report, his hands trembling as he read it. His face drained of all color. After a long moment, he looked up at me, his eyes wide with fear. "What are you going to do to me?" "You have terminal cancer. Do I really need to do anything? The divorce papers are on the table. I've already signed them." "I'd suggest you call your dear Linda to take care of you. After all, your little pension won't be enough to hire a nurse." "Susan," he whispered, his voice pleading. "You're joking, right? This is a joke." I let out a final, cold laugh, picked up my suitcase, and walked out of the house. He screamed my name behind me, but I didn't turn back. This time, with a clean bill of health in my hand, I passed through security without a problem. But just as I was about to step onto the jet bridge, two police officers stopped me. "Are you Ms. Susan Clark? We've received a report that you are a suspect in an attempted murder. Please come with us."
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