Paula set down her red pen, folded her hands, and looked at him. — Mike, we’re on a strict budget. Building savings, remember? I bought those hot dogs with my money for our son’s breakfast.
Your shelf is entirely under your control. — Are you kidding me? I’m your husband. I’m hungry!
Red blotches spread across his face. — And I’m your wife, who wanted a birthday gift, — she replied with cool calm. — You introduced the concept of saving. I supported it.
What exactly is the problem? You’ve got sardines and pickles on your shelf. Sounds like a solid dinner for a hardworking provider.
Mike opened his mouth, ready to launch into some speech about female cruelty, then stopped. Paula wasn’t looking at him with hurt. She was looking at him with the detached interest of a science teacher watching an experiment play out. He yanked open the cabinet, grabbed a can of sardines, and attacked it with the can opener.
Oil splattered onto the counter. By the end of the second week, Mike’s shelf looked like a post-apocalyptic wasteland. There was one dried-up piece of cheese, two eggs, and half a lemon wearing a gray film of neglect.
Mike’s food budget was gone. He tried to get clever, tried sneaking cookies from the pantry, but Paula moved the snacks into a deep drawer with a child lock. The morning before her birthday, Paula woke to the sound of the front door slamming.
Mike had left for work: no flowers, no card, not even a mumbled happy birthday on his way out. She stretched under the sheets, staring at the gray ceiling. The usual heaviness of disappointment wasn’t there.
What she felt instead was anticipation. She got up and made Sammy wonderful vanilla pancakes with strawberry jam. The two of them ate breakfast laughing while powdered sugar ended up all over his nose.
— Happy birthday, Mom! Sammy handed her a crooked but deeply sweet drawing of the three of them standing in front of an oversized house. Mike was barely visible in the picture, hidden behind a large green blob that was apparently a bush.
— Thank you, sweetheart. Paula hugged him close, breathing in that warm little-kid smell of sleep and milk. That evening she didn’t make any heroic holiday meal.
The celebration was for her. No layered salads. No baked meat covered in melted cheese. She ordered two servings of her favorite sushi for herself and her son and bought a small but outrageously expensive mini cake with chocolate-cherry filling.
At six-thirty, the key turned in the lock. Mike came in, breathing heavily. He kicked off his shoes, dropped his briefcase on the bench, and headed for the kitchen, loosening his tie as he walked.
He always came home hungry, and today, on a day that by every family tradition should have meant a table full of food, his stomach had been anticipating the event all afternoon. He stepped into the kitchen. The table was completely bare…
