After losing her husband of 32 years, my mom, Colleen, eventually remarried a man named Raymond. He seemed kind and charming at first—attentive, helpful, even a little romantic. But six months in, the cracks began to show. When I came to visit, I found my mother looking frail and anxious, clearly unwell, and almost afraid to speak freely. What broke me was watching her panic over reheating lasagna for dinner. Raymond demanded a freshly cooked meal every single day, and when she served him leftovers, he flew into a rage—calling her lazy and a failure of a wife. Seeing my strong,
loving mother apologize on her knees to this man was the moment I knew something had to change. So I played the long game. I acted polite, even friendly, and took over the kitchen—whipping up what appeared to be elaborate, gourmet meals. Raymond praised my cooking endlessly. He smiled, satisfied, saying this is what a real meal should taste like. Then, once I had him nice and comfortable, I dropped the truth: he’d been eating leftovers all week. I’d just rearranged them, added some garnish,