My husband threw away the chicken I cooked and said, “You’ll thank me later.” When I found out why, I filed for divorce.

I nodded, even though he was already leaving.

As soon as the door closed, I shook off my embarrassment and returned to work. I set the table with cloth napkins, white pillar candles, and the heavy plates we rarely used. I inhaled the aroma of garlic and roasted chicken that filled the house.

I even turned down the intensity of the ceiling light.

An incredible aroma wafted through the kitchen—something vibrant and golden, spicy and slow. It wasn’t about  impressing her  … but about creating   a moment of   comfort and attention.

When Neil discreetly returned, just as I was lighting the candles, I almost forgot about the shoe polish I had brought earlier.

I heard his keys drop into the bowl by the door, the soft sound of his shoes on the carpet, and the sigh   he let out every time he entered.

I smiled to myself and waited for a “Wow, Iris.” Or a kiss. Or simply a grateful silence.

Instead, I heard him go into the kitchen and open the trash can lid.

Then the gentle, wet slide of something heavy.

I ran into the kitchen. Neil was scraping fried chicken with one of my silicone spatulas into the trash can.

“What are you doing?!” I froze.

“He’s been gone too long, Iris,” he said without blinking.

My husband closed the trash can lid, dried his hands, and went into the living room.

“You can thank me later,” he said, picking up the remote and flipping channels as if it were a normal evening.

I stood in the kitchen, still gripping the edge of the counter, staring at the steel trash can as if I had just seen someone throw my wedding ring into it.

The chicken lay at the very bottom, half-buried in bowls and paper towels, glistening with olive oil and rosemary. It looked…   perfect   .

I followed Neil into the living room, my voice somewhere between disbelief and anger.

“Neil,” I said, trying to remain calm. “Please tell me you’re joking. Tell me you didn’t just   throw away your dinner   .”

He looked at me as if I were being dramatic and unreasonable. Over the course of our marriage, I’d learned to hate that look.

“Iris, the chicken was on the counter for twelve minutes before you put it in the oven. I was still home. I was sitting in the dining room getting ready for a meeting. I set my alarm when you took the raw chicken out of the fridge.”

“What?” I asked, frowning. “Did you time it?”

“I already told you,” he said with a deep sigh. “The reasonable time to let the chickens outside is ten minutes. Any longer is dangerous. You’re lucky I noticed, Iris.”

I knew it wasn’t dangerous, but I also knew it was better not to get into a discussion.

“Lucky?” My voice cracks. “I spent hours preparing this meal, Neil. I told you I was making something special! What happens to chicken that’s been outside too long?! It wasn’t in the sun, Neil. It was right here on the counter while I prepared it.”

“I didn’t think you were serious about dinner,” he said with a shrug.

I looked at my hands, still a little sticky from the garlic and lemon zest, and then turned to him, who was lying there smugly, unfazed by the ruin he had just caused of my efforts and of my day.

He was still calmly browsing Netflix and then it hit me.

Then I realized that I couldn’t live like this anymore.

I picked up my phone and ordered an extra cheese pizza.

The next morning, I sat down at the dining room table with my laptop open, a half-eaten slice of cold pizza next to me, and filed for divorce.

There was nothing dramatic about it. I didn’t cry, I didn’t shake, I didn’t run around the house packing my bags. I simply texted my lawyer.