After losing her husband of 32 years, my mom, Colleen, eventually remarried a man named Raymond. He seemed kind and charming at first—attentive, helpful, even a little romantic. But six months in, the cracks began to show. When I came to visit, I found my mother looking frail and anxious, clearly unwell, and almost afraid to speak freely. What broke me was watching her panic over reheating lasagna for dinner. Raymond demanded a freshly cooked meal every single day, and when she served him leftovers, he flew into a rage—calling her lazy and a failure of a wife. Seeing my strong,

loving mother apologize on her knees to this man was the moment I knew something had to change. So I played the long game. I acted polite, even friendly, and took over the kitchen—whipping up what appeared to be elaborate, gourmet meals. Raymond praised my cooking endlessly. He smiled, satisfied, saying this is what a real meal should taste like. Then, once I had him nice and comfortable, I dropped the truth: he’d been eating leftovers all week. I’d just rearranged them, added some garnish,

and reheated with flair. His face turned purple with rage. That night, I took Mom out to dinner and reminded her of something she had forgotten—she didn’t need to serve anyone to be worthy of love. She cried in the car, but it was the good kind of cry—the beginning of something stronger. A week later,

we changed the locks. Raymond came home to find his bags packed on the porch. Three months passed in peace. Then one day, Mom called me, amused. “You’ll never guess who begged for a second chance,” she said. “I told him I already had plans—with leftover lasagna and my freedom.”