After my dad passed, Mom met Glenn—charming at first, but soon demanding. He insisted on daily fresh meals, once throwing lasagna on the floor because it was “leftovers.” Watching her shrink under his entitled behavior broke me. So I visited—and made a plan.
For five days, I cooked elaborate meals. Glenn praised every bite. Then I revealed the truth: all leftovers, just repurposed. He exploded, but I stayed calm. “It’s not the food—it’s how you treat the person making it,” I said. Mom stood silent but didn’t defend him.
That night, I took her out to a quiet bistro. Over lasagna, she whispered, “I want to feel brave again.” I told her, “You still are.”
We packed Glenn’s things, changed the locks. When he returned, furious, she calmly said, “You’re not welcome anymore.” Months later, he begged to come back. Mom laughed. “I already made lasagna—and I’m having it again tomorrow.”
Glenn saw love as a service. But Mom learned love is respect, not sacrifice. And people who treat kindness like a chore? Eventually, they’re served their own bitter helping of humble pie—cold, and very much reheated.
