While I Was Away, My Wife Sold My Father's Restaurant to Her Lover

When I was a kid, I'd do my homework right there in the restaurant after school while Dad worked the wok beside me.

The grease smoke always left his eyes red and watery. He'd just grin and say he was used to it.

Later, I got into college, started working, traveled more for business. Every time I came home, I'd swing by the restaurant and sit for a while. He'd cook two dishes for me himself, sit across the table watching me eat, asking about everything under the sun.

The last time I went was a week before he was admitted to the hospital.

He was standing by the entrance smoking, watching the customers come and go, his eyes full of something he couldn't let go of.

I told myself: A few more years. Once things slow down, I'll come back and help him.

I never got the chance.

I filled my second glass and picked up my phone to text Connor Winters. He was my oldest friend, ran his own accounting firm.

"Need you to run a plate for me. Sending it now."

He replied instantly: "What's going on?"

I sent him the plate number.

"A Mercedes? Why are you running that? Whose car?"

"Some guy. I don't know him."

A few seconds of silence. Then my phone rang.

"Julian, spell it out for me. What's happening?"

I gave him the short version.

He swore on the other end of the line. "Where are you?"

"Drinking."

"Stay put. I'm coming."

"Don't bother. Just find out who the guy is."

He swore a few more times and hung up.

I kept drinking.

Two bottles of baijiu gone, and I still hadn't touched the food.

The owner's wife came over with the check, glanced at the empty bottles, opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, then thought better of it.

I scanned the code to pay, stood up, and walked out.

When I got home, Meg was curled up on the couch watching TV.

She looked up when I walked in, startled for a second, then frowned. "Why are you back?"

"Trip got canceled last minute."

She gave a flat "oh" and turned her eyes back to the screen. "Have you eaten? There are leftovers in the kitchen."

I stared at her profile and felt, suddenly, like I was looking at a stranger.

Seven years of marriage. I traveled for work over a dozen times a year. Every time I came home, she'd greet me warmly, ask what I wanted to eat, then bustle around the kitchen. Even if I got in at two in the morning, there'd be a hot meal waiting on the stove.

Now she said: There are leftovers in the kitchen.

I didn't say anything. I dragged my suitcase into the bedroom and dropped my bags on the floor.

When I came back out, she was still watching TV. She'd just shifted positions, her feet propped up on the coffee table.

"I want to talk about the restaurant again."

I stood in the middle of the living room.

She turned her head, her expression already impatient. "What's there to talk about? I've already worked it all out with the buyer. We're signing the contract tomorrow."

"A hundred and eighty thousand dollars. You don't think that's low?"

"They had it appraised. That's what it's worth. Besides, the restaurant business is brutal right now. We should sell while someone's still willing to buy."

"That restaurant was my father's entire life!"

She stood up, her voice rising. "There you go again, your father, your father! If I hadn't been running that place, it would've gone under years ago!"

"Do you have any idea how hard it is out there? Do you know how exhausting it is dealing with customers and suppliers every single day?"

"You don't know anything. All you do is go to work and travel!"

I looked at her and spoke slowly, every word deliberate. "That still doesn't give you the right to sell the restaurant without even talking to me."

"Talk about what? I'm the legal representative. I have the authority to decide."

"Did you see the message I sent you? If you go through with selling that restaurant, we're getting a divorce."

Meg froze. Then she laughed. A thin, contemptuous laugh.

"Julian, are you serious right now?" She folded her arms and tilted her head, looking at me like I was a child throwing a tantrum. "You want a divorce over me selling a restaurant? You think marriage is some kind of game?"