I didn’t think twice about letting my husband have a rare night out. The next morning, I opened our fridge and saw a lasagna that hadn’t been there the night before. On its lid, someone had written two words that made me question everything I knew about my marriage.
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Ryan asked about the match at around four, in that careful way he did when he was already prepared for me to say no.
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“I said go.”
“I can stay.”
“Ryan.”
He smiled. “I’m going.”
He’d worked six straight days and was starting early again on Sunday. I had our three children, six-year-old Ben, four-year-old Maisie, and 11-month-old Ella, who still considered sleep an optional activity.
I genuinely didn’t mind.
“Have a pint,” I told him. “Don’t rush back.”
He left at around six, and an hour later, I was regretting those words.
Ella screamed through her bath.
Ben couldn’t find the dinosaur he apparently needed to survive bedtime. Maisie rejected three pairs of pajamas before choosing the first pair again.
By nine, I had all three down.
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By half past nine, Ella was awake.
At 11, Maisie appeared beside my bed crying about a bad dream and climbed in before I could answer.
I fell asleep around midnight with her foot pressed into my back.
I heard Ryan come home at 20 past one.
The front door clicked. The stairs creaked. A tap ran downstairs.
Then he came up quietly, although Ryan being quiet somehow involved making twice as much noise as usual.
I remember him pausing in our bedroom doorway.
Then nothing.
His alarm went off at ten to six. I barely registered him getting dressed. By the time the children woke me properly, he’d already left for work.
At half past eight, I came downstairs with Ella on my hip.
I opened the fridge for her bottle.
That was when I saw it.
A rectangular glass dish sat on the middle shelf.
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It wasn’t mine. Mine were cheap plastic containers I’d bought from the supermarket years ago. This was heavy glass with a dark blue lid, the sort of dish someone expected to get back.
Inside was lasagna.
Homemade lasagna.