My husband’s friend arrived from Bellagio a week ago, and honestly, it’s been a waking nightmare. I tried so hard. Really. I cooked. We went to restaurants. I wanted to introduce her to Melbourne’s incredible food scene. Thai, Vietnamese, modern Australian… but no. Every single meal was met with a dismissive shrug, a polite but clear, “Italian food is the best.” We ended up eating Italian three days in a row, each dish apparently a pale imitation of what she’s used to. Pasta, cheese, wine – nothing measured up. My attempts to broaden her palate were utterly useless. She got visibly agitated when I ordered a cappuccino at 4 PM yesterday. “We don’t drink cappuccino after 12 PM,” she snapped, as if I had committed a cardinal sin. At Coles, she walked me through the pasta aisle, painstakingly correcting my pronunciation of rigatoni and fusilli, her voice dripping with condescension. Every single day it’s something new. My husband just smiled weakly, never stepping in, never defending me. It was like he was a different person. I told myself she was just being culturally proud, but the constant judgment was starting to chip away at me.
Today, I decided to cook at home. I’m Asian, and I love my spices, my rich, vibrant flavours. I’d spent hours preparing a dish I was genuinely proud of. The aroma of garlic, chilli, and yes, a little fish sauce, filled our kitchen – a smell that always brings me comfort. She walked in, took one breath, and grimaced. “Your house smells bad,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Like… fish.” My blood ran cold. It wasn’t just a critique of my cooking; it was a direct insult to my home, my heritage. I felt a hot flush crawl up my neck. My husband stood silently beside her, not a word of protest. My eyes darted to him, searching for some sign of support, but he just looked at his feet.
Later, after a stilted, silent meal, he disappeared to “make a call.” I was clearing the table, my hands trembling with suppressed rage and hurt. She watched me, a cold, almost pitying look in her eyes. I expected another jab, another comment about my inferior culinary skills. Instead, she moved closer, her voice dropping to a low, chilling whisper. “He never told you, did he?”
I paused, a plate slipping in my hand. “Told me what?” I managed, my heart hammering. She smirked, a cruel, knowing curve of her lips. “He was supposed to finalize the divorce before he left Bellagio. He never did.” My world tilted. What? She reached into her bag, pulling out a small, framed photo. It was him, younger, beaming, beside her in a white dress, against the stunning backdrop of Lake Como. In her other hand, she held up a document. “This is our marriage certificate. And this,” she continued, placing a hand on her slightly rounded belly, “is why I flew all the way here. He’s my husband. And my baby’s father.”
The plate shattered on the floor. My knees buckled. I couldn’t breathe. MY HUSBAND? Her husband? IT WAS ALL A LIE.
