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

I shot back, "So you're selling the restaurant because I travel too much for work?"

"Don't flatter yourself." She let out a cold laugh. "I'm selling it because I'm sick of waiting on those people. I want an easier life. Is that a crime?"

"No."

"Then it's settled." She stood up. "We sign the contract tomorrow. Once the money comes through, we split it fifty-fifty. You want a divorce? Fine. I couldn't care less."

I looked her in the eyes. "You're serious?"

"Dead serious."

I nodded. "Alright. Don't come crying to me later."

She scoffed, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the bedroom. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls.

I stood in the living room for a while, then went to the guest room, grabbed a blanket, and lay down on the couch.

I couldn't sleep.

My phone buzzed.

I picked it up. A message from Connor.

"Julian, I found it. The car is registered to a guy named Oswald Gilbert. Runs a restaurant company."

"This guy's no small fish."

Several attachments followed.

I read through every document carefully, then replied: "You free tomorrow? Come with me to the restaurant."

"You got it!"

I set the phone down and closed my eyes.

Some time passed. I was drifting off when the phone rang.

I picked it up. Mrs. Henson.

I answered, but before I could get a word out, she was already tearing into me.

"Julian! What the hell do you think you're doing? You want to divorce Meg?"

"What has she ever done to you? She's been running that household all by herself, plus managing that whole restaurant. You think that's easy? And now you just want to walk away? Are you even human?"

I listened. Said nothing.

"Let me tell you something. If you dare divorce her, I will make your life a living hell!"

"Don't think you can push the Hensons around! Meg gave you seven years. Seven years! And what did you ever give her?"

"That run-down restaurant your father left behind? She managed it for you! Worked herself to the bone every single day, and now that she wants to sell it, you throw a fit?"

"It's not even yours! She's the legal representative! She can sell it whenever she damn well pleases, and there's not a thing you can do about it!"

I finally spoke. "Are you done?"

She faltered.

"What did you just say?"

"I said, if you're done, I'm hanging up."

"Don't you dare! You're going to explain yourself right now!"

I hung up and powered off the phone.

The living room was pitch black. I sat up and lit a cigarette.

Smoke curled upward, dissolving against the ceiling.

I thought about my father's funeral. Meg had held me and cried.

Through her tears, she'd told me we'd build a good life together. That she'd take care of the restaurant. That my father could rest easy.

In the beginning, she went to the restaurant every week. She'd sit down with the chefs to discuss new dishes, hold meetings with the waitstaff, reconcile the books at the end of every month to calculate profits.

Then, gradually, her visits tapered off.

I asked her about it a few times. She said she was exhausted and wanted to hire a general manager.

I agreed.

After that, she stopped checking the books altogether. Whatever the manager reported, she accepted at face value. She just stopped caring.

I figured she was worn out. I didn't push it.

Looking back now, that was probably when she'd started planning to sell.

I finished the cigarette and lay back down.

I drifted off at some point. When I opened my eyes again, daylight filled the room.

The next morning, Connor and I walked into the restaurant.

It was the pre-lunch rush. Servers were setting tables, and the rhythmic thud of knives on cutting boards echoed from the kitchen.

A few of the longtime employees froze when they saw me walk in, then quickly came over to say hello.

I greeted each of them. They looked at me with something unspoken behind their eyes.

One of them opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, and said nothing.

Connor leaned in behind me and murmured, "Julian, something feels off in here."

I didn't respond.

I made my way to the kitchen entrance. William Finch, the head chef, was prepping ingredients at his station. He looked up, saw me, and his knife went still.