it every time. Then came the dinner party. I cooked a full roast chicken, served up rich sides, and poured wine. Everyone got the works—except Derek. On his plate? A dry rice cake and three steamed peas with a lemon slice, courtesy of Chef Claude. He looked at my plate. Then theirs. Then back at his. His face dropped. He finally got it. We all burst into laughter. That night,

we had the first real conversation we’d had in weeks. He apologized—truly. Now, he helps with dinner, praises my cooking, and even takes baby night duty without being asked. And Chef Claude? He’s still online. Just in case Derek ever forgets how lucky he really is.