She Put Cilantro in My Lunch ,So I Filed for Divorce

I opened my lunchbox at noon and found a pack of cigarettes nestled inside.

A condom.

And cilantro tossed into the stir-fry.

Everything was neatly packed, but a chill crawled down my spine.

First—I don't smoke.

Second, there were always condoms in the nightstand drawer, so there was no reason to slip one into my lunch.

Third, she knew I was allergic to cilantro. How could she possibly put it in my food?

I didn't overthink it. I picked up my phone and called my lawyer. "Draw up a divorce agreement for me."

My lawyer happened to be my sister. The moment she heard the word divorce, she let out a shriek. "Are you out of your mind?! Alexandra is so good to you! You want a divorce just because she put cilantro in your food? Don't you think you're blowing this way out of proportion?"

"…"

"Seriously, you're being so dramatic. I'm not agreeing to this."

Before I could even respond, my sister had already planted her flag in opposition.

"Alexandra is wonderful. Don't nitpick over every little thing—she makes amazing food for you."

I couldn't help but fire back. "You're my lawyer. Could you at least try to act professional?"

"I don't care," Gladys Perez snapped. "Sure, you hired me as your attorney, but I'm Alexandra's biggest supporter first. You want to divorce her? Over my dead body." Her voice was sharp with anger. "And if you think I'm drafting that agreement for you, forget it."

She hung up with a loud click.

Gladys had only graduated two years ago before I gave her a position at my company.

Still too young. Too impulsive.

I didn't bother arguing with her. Instead, I reached out to a more seasoned legal team. Once I'd discussed everything with them, I had to admit—their efficiency was impressive.

By the time the workday was winding down, the divorce agreement was already drafted.

On the matter of asset division, the attorneys offered some professional advice: it would strengthen my case considerably if I could identify the person the cilantro was actually meant for.

I understood. "Can I authorize your firm to handle that entirely? Money isn't an issue."

"Mr. Perez, we appreciate your trust. We won't let you down."

I'd barely hung up when my phone rang again.

The caller ID showed it was my father.

Evan Perez wasted no words. His voice was a blade. "You have one hour to get home. Otherwise, I don't have a son."

The line went dead, replaced by a flat dial tone.

I stood there for a moment, speechless.

I really hadn't expected that my sister—a licensed attorney—would have zero professional discretion. In the blink of an eye, her mouth had worked like a megaphone, broadcasting the news to everyone.

No choice. I gathered my things, got in the car, and drove to my parents' house.

The second I stepped through the door, something felt off.

Several figures sat in the living room, every face drawn tight with tension.

"You're back," Gladys spoke up first.

I shot her a look.

She didn't flinch. "What? I told you—I don't agree with you divorcing Alexandra. And it's not just me. Mom and Dad don't agree either."

Every pair of eyes in the room locked onto me.

My wife, Alexandra Henson, was there too.

She sat with tears streaming down her face, the picture of fragile, rain-soaked beauty.

My parents flanked her, doing everything they could to comfort her.

"You ungrateful bastard, you finally decided to show your face." My father's voice cracked like a whip. "What are you standing there for? Get over here and apologize to Alexandra. Now!"