“Hold on — I almost forgot.”
I reached for my phone.
Daniel frowned. “What are you—”
I snapped a picture. But not of the food.
Of him.
Mid-bite.
Fork halfway to his mouth, looking utterly confused.
He blinked. “Uh… what was that?”
I smiled as I typed. Sent.
Daniel’s phone buzzed.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his face paled.
“Hi Carol! This is Daniel eating my food. Thoughts?
Should I let him finish or make him starve until he learns to appreciate me? 😊”
He looked at me, jaw slack.
“You wouldn’t.”
I smirked. “Oh, but I would.”
His phone buzzed again.
He didn’t check it. Didn’t dare. For the first time in six months, he understood.
He picked up his fork, shoved his phone into his pocket, and ate.
No photos. No commentary. Just food.
Carol never came over for dinner again.
Daniel never took another picture of his plate. He even started complimenting my meals without a single side comment.
One night, he surprised me by making dinner himself. It was a disaster — burnt chicken, overcooked pasta, way too much salt.
But I smiled, took a bite, and said, “This is really good.”
Because it wasn’t about the food. It never was. It was about respect.
And finally, I had it.
In the end, victory tasted even better than Chicken Parmesan.
Source: amomama
