The Lasagna Lesson
After my dad passed, my mom was lonely for a long time. So when she met Raymond, I wanted to be happy for her. He was charming—at first. Polite, helpful, always smiling. But that smile didn’t last long.
On my most recent visit, my mom wasn’t feeling well—just a bad cold. She stayed in her robe, tissues in hand, and when dinnertime came, she quietly reheated some of her homemade lasagna from the night before.
Raymond took one look at the plate she set down and exploded.
“You kidding me, Colleen? I don’t eat the same meal twice! Am I a man or a pig?! You cook for your husband every day. That’s your job now.”
And with that, he smashed the plate on the floor.
I watched my mom kneel down silently, shaking as she picked up shards of ceramic and scooped lasagna off the tile. “It’s fine,” she whispered.
But it wasn’t fine. Not even remotely.
I barely slept that night. I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Raymond’s heavy snoring through the wall and my mom’s occasional sniffle. I knew if I screamed at him, it would only make things worse for her later.
So instead… I plotted.
The next morning, I was in the kitchen early, humming like a Stepford wife.
Raymond strutted in, rubbing his stomach. “Smells good,” he said, grinning. “Guess someone finally got the message.”
“Oh, absolutely,” I replied sweetly. “You deserve something fresh, Raymond.”
He sat at the table, leaned back, and clapped his hands like a toddler waiting for cake.
I served him a beautifully plated meal: fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, buttery toast, and a fresh fruit salad. His eyes lit up.
“Now this is more like it!” he said, taking a big bite of the eggs.
“Glad you like it,” I said, pouring him a cup of coffee. “Made it all just for you. Eggs from the farmer’s market, too.”
He shoveled in the bacon.
“Oh, and the toast? Fresh sourdough. From the bakery down the road.”
“Mmm. You’re not so bad after all,” he mumbled through a mouthful.
Then I sat down across from him, folded my hands, and smiled. “I’m so happy you’re enjoying it. It’s Mom’s lasagna.”
He froze. “What?”
“The eggs? Lasagna. The bacon? Lasagna. The toast? Buttered and grilled with lasagna puree. Even the fruit salad? Glazed with lasagna reduction. I just got… creative.”
His fork dropped. He stared at the plate like it had turned into a rat. “You’re kidding.”
I sipped my coffee. “Not even a little.”
Raymond pushed the plate away and stormed off, muttering curses under his breath. My mom walked in, saw the half-eaten plate, and looked at me.
“You didn’t…”
“I did.”
She covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. Then—she did laugh. For the first time in weeks.
Raymond didn’t speak to me for the rest of my visit. And he hasn’t raised his voice to my mom since.
Guess it turns out he can eat the same meal twice—just not when he doesn’t know he’s doing it.
And Mom? She now keeps lasagna in the freezer. Just in case.