Chapter 2 - The Saturday Standoff
By Friday, the reality of my new policy had set in for David. The refrigerator was a minefield of labels. He had tried to eat a slice of “Chloe’s” ham, only to find a sticky note on the packet reminding him of the price per ounce. He hadn't bought a single thing to eat. He was thin, tired, and clearly overwhelmed by the realization that food didn’t just manifest in the pantry.
But the real test was Saturday.
At exactly 2:00 PM, the familiar sound of Victoria’s sedan pulling into the driveway signaled the start of the weekly circus. I stood on the porch, watching as Ryan, Sarah, and the three children piled out, followed by Victoria holding a stack of those familiar, annoying empty plastic containers.
They marched into the house with the confidence of people who owned the place. They walked straight into the kitchen, expecting the smell of brisket and the sight of a spread that would feed an army.
They found nothing.
Victoria stopped dead in her tracks, her containers clattering against the granite island. The air in the house was cool and sterile. No brisket. No macaroni. No peach cobbler.
“Chloe?” Victoria’s voice was sharp, a weaponized inquiry. “Where are the trays? We have the children here, and the kids are hungry. Ryan hasn't eaten since noon.”
“Hi, Victoria,” I said, entering the kitchen with a fresh glass of wine. “I’m afraid I didn't cook today.”
David came rushing in, his face beaded with sweat. He had spent the morning trying to figure out how to order a pizza for one while the rest of the household expected a banquet. “Babe, we need to talk. You can’t just let them starve.”
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“I’m not letting them starve, David,” I said, addressing the room. “I’m just not providing the catering service for this branch of the Miller family. David and I have separate finances now. That includes household logistics.”
Ryan looked at his brother, his expression shifting from confusion to annoyance. “David? What is she talking about? Where’s the food?”
