“No,” I said. “You did that yourself.”
He slept on the couch.
The next day, Linda showed up with lasagna. Full-fat. Real cheese.
She walked past Jake and looked straight at me.
“How are you feeling today?”
“Tired,” I said. “Hungry.”
She nodded. Then turned to her son.
“You’re cooking for your wife. Tonight. Tomorrow. Every day. If you want to monitor what she eats, you’re responsible for making sure she eats enough.”
She meant it.
She checked in after that. Texts. Surprise visits. Groceries. Watching Jake cook while I held Emma and breathed again.
Slowly, the comments stopped.
A few months later, Jake sat beside me while I fed Emma, looking wrecked.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hurt you.”
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