While I was surviving on two hours of sleep, cold coffee, and one-handed meals while nursing our newborn, my husband Derek suddenly “wasn’t hungry” anymore. I figured it was stress—new baby, new routine—but then I saw the charges. Dozens of them. Restaurant bills scattered across our joint account, all while I was home cooking and barely holding it together. When I confronted him, he shrugged. “I just needed a break from your… repetitive cooking.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I got creative. Enter Chef Claude—a completely fake gourmet delivery service I invented just for Derek. I built a website,

set up a burner phone, and crafted ridiculous menus with pretentious names for painfully bland food. Boiled carrots became “Glazed Woodland Spears.” Rice cakes? “Artisanal Grain Medallions.” One night, I even served him a single gummy bear on a spoon—Le Bonbon Solitaire. He ate it all, night after night, praising Claude’s “clean flavors” and “elegant restraint.” I nearly lost,