After my dad passed six years ago, my mom, Colleen, was a shell of herself. Their 32-year marriage was quiet but deeply loving—small gestures like morning coffee and carefully folded socks said it all. I called her every day from two states away, but the loneliness was unmistakable.
Then came Raymond, a coworker at the community college. He was charming at first—bringing her lunch, helping with repairs—and soon, they were engaged. I had my doubts, but seeing her happy again pushed them aside.
The wedding was intimate and sweet, and I even whispered to him, “Take care of her.” He promised he would.
Six months later, I visited with muffins and found a gaunt version of my mom. She claimed it was just a cold, but Raymond’s controlling behavior quickly surfaced. When she offered him leftover lasagna, he exploded—shouting, smashing the food on the floor, and calling her a failure as a wife.
I was horrified.
Over the next few days, I cooked every meal, pretending to be the perfect guest. Raymond praised each dish, clueless I was serving him leftovers in disguise. On the fourth night, I told him. His pride was bruised, and my mom finally saw him for who he was.
We packed his things while he was out and changed the locks.
When he came back, furious, Mom stood firm: “This is my late husband’s house. Please leave.”
That night, we sat on the porch swing. She asked, “What if I made a mistake?” I said, “What if you didn’t?”
Three months later, she called laughing—Raymond had begged to come back. She told him she already had dinner plans: leftover lasagna.
The truth is, entitlement will always overplay its hand. Love isn’t owed, and when you treat kindness like a chore, you’re bound to be served a dish called consequences—with a side of “get out.”
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