While I juggled sleepless nights and newborn chaos, my husband started coming home “not hungry.” I thought it was stress — until I uncovered what he’d been up to behind my back. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I planned a revenge so delicious he’d never forget.
“Shhh, it’s okay, baby girl,” I whispered as I bounced my four-month-old daughter, Sophie, gently in one arm while stirring a pot of chili with my free hand. “Mommy’s just making dinner for Daddy. He’ll be home soon.”
My maternity leave had become a strange time warp where days melted together, and I often found myself wondering if it was Tuesday or Saturday.
Despite functioning on caffeine fumes and whatever snacks I could grab one-handed, I still cooked dinner every night.
Nothing fancy, just simple, hearty meals to keep us going through the newborn trenches: stir-fry, chili, or mac and cheese with hidden vegetables.
When Derek walked through the door that evening, I greeted him with a tired smile. “Hey, dinner’s almost ready. Just warming up some of yesterday’s chili.”
He kissed me on the forehead, barely glancing at the food. “Thanks, but I’m not really hungry. I had a big lunch with the Johnson account today.”
“Oh.” I tried to hide my disappointment. “Well, it’ll keep if you want some later.”
This wasn’t the first time. For weeks now, Derek had been dodging my cooking with a rotating cast of excuses.
“Heavy food makes me sluggish at night,” he’d claimed last week.
“I’m trying to eat lighter in the evenings,” he’d said the week before that.
Before Sophie, Derek had always cleaned his plate and often asked for seconds. Now, I couldn’t help wondering what had changed.
One morning, after being up with Sophie since 4 a.m., I collapsed onto the couch during her morning nap. I opened our shared banking app to check if we could squeeze an electric rocker seat out of our budget.
That’s when I first realized Derek had been deceiving me.
The app showed charges from various eateries: $63 at The Golden Fork Bistro, $54 at Eastwood Steakhouse, and $48 at Louie’s Urban Tacos.
I blinked hard, thinking my sleep-deprived brain was playing tricks on me. But as I scrolled back through three weeks of transactions, the pattern was undeniable.
Derek had been eating out… a lot. Nearly every day, in fact. All while telling me he wasn’t hungry or had big lunches.
My hands trembled as I took screenshots of the charges. Without thinking, I texted them to Derek with a simple message: “Full yet?”
His reply came surprisingly fast: “Babe. I just need a break from your food. You cook the same things all the time. I’m not mad, just being honest.”
I stared at his message, feeling like I’d been slapped.
But instead of firing back an angry response, I took a deep breath and typed: “Okay. Thanks for telling me. 😊”
Because at that moment, a plan began to form.
After I caught him, Derek started ordering takeout more “above board,” in that he now brought it home to “share.”
Except he never actually ordered anything for me. It was always some solo meal he’d eat on the couch while I nursed Sophie. I was lucky if I got to grab a few of his fries.
He seemed to think this got him off the hook for wasting our money on eating out in secret for weeks, but it was only adding fuel to the fire.
One night, after Sophie finally fell asleep, I stayed up late on my laptop. By morning, “L’Amour du Goût — luxury for the everyday palate” was born.
I’d created a sleek website with Canva, designed professional-looking menus using stock photos, set up a fake email account, and even bought a burner phone from Walgreens.
My alter ego, “Chef Claude,” was ready for business.
The next step was setting the trap.
When Derek’s usual delivery arrived that evening, I carefully slipped a glossy card into his bag while he was in the bathroom.
The card read: “Enjoyed your order? Try something exclusive. No menu repeats. Ever. Text this number to be added to our exclusive client list.”
The number, of course, led straight to my burner phone.
Three days passed before I heard anything. I was beginning to think Derek hadn’t found the card when my burner phone buzzed with a text: “Saw your card. I’m interested. – Derek.”
I smiled to myself and replied as Chef Claude: “Bienvenue! Your private chef journey begins tomorrow. Deliveries at 6:30 p.m. Text CONFIRM to start.”
“CONFIRM,” came the reply.
Hook, line, and sinker.
The next day, while Derek was at work and Sophie was napping, I prepared the first “luxury meal.”
I cooked up the blandest, saddest food I could imagine, but dressed it up in sleek containers I’d bought online:
Air Poached Root Slivers (plain boiled carrots) Deconstructed Gluten Reduction Cake (a plain rice cake with a smear of mayo) Basil Whisper Soup (warm water with a single basil leaf).
I arranged everything in the fancy containers, added a handwritten note on expensive cardstock that read “Chef Claude’s Daily Creation,” and hid it all in the back of our garage refrigerator.
At 6:25 that evening, I excused myself and snuck out to the garage.
I took the fancy delivery bag from the fridge, slipped outside, and placed it on our front step. I knocked on our front door and hurried back inside before Derek could see me.
From the kitchen, I listened as Derek unpacked his “gourmet” meal. I expected to hear complaints or for him to call up to me, but there was only silence.
When I returned 30 minutes later with Sophie in my arms, the containers were empty, and Derek was watching TV.
“How was your dinner?” I asked.
“Fine,” he said, not looking away from the screen. “Different. Kind of subtle flavors.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “That’s nice.”
The next night’s “luxury” meal was even worse:
Fennel-Misted Protein Pillow (a hard-boiled egg in a cup), Artisan Airbag Chips (three stale popcorn pieces), and Ambrosia Reduction (one gummy bear melted onto a spoon).
Again, I performed my delivery routine, and again, Derek ate everything without complaint.
I could tell from his expression that he wasn’t enjoying it, but something kept him from admitting it.
By night three, when I delivered a single longstemmed broccoli labeled “Vertical Garden Monolith” and a teaspoon of plain yogurt called “Cloud Harvest,” Derek had had enough.
My burner phone buzzed: “Is this a joke?”
Staying in character, I replied: “Chef Claude does not entertain those who question culinary genius. Perhaps your palate is not refined enough for our offerings.”
It was time to execute the final part of my plan.
That weekend, I invited my two closest mom friends over for dinner.
Lisa and Jen had been in on the plan from the start, helping me brainstorm the ridiculous food names and cheering me on through my elaborate scheme.
“He still has no idea?” Lisa asked as she peeled potatoes for our very real, very delicious dinner of roast chicken, crispy potatoes, and chocolate cake.
“Not a clue,” I confirmed. “He thinks this dinner party means he gets a break from Chef Claude’s creations.”
“You’re my hero,” Jen said, sliding the chicken into the oven. “I can’t wait to see his face.”
When Derek came home, he sniffed the air appreciatively. “Smells amazing in here.”
“We’ve been cooking all afternoon,” I said sweetly. “Why don’t you relax? Dinner’s almost ready.”
When it was time to serve, Lisa and Jen brought their plates to the table, heaped with golden chicken, roasted potatoes, and fresh salad. I followed with a small silver tray for Derek containing:
A single rice cake. One boiled carrot. A spoon holding a lone gummy bear.
As I placed it in front of him, I smiled brightly. “Bon appétit. Chef Claude sends his regards.”
Derek stared at the plate, then at me, then back at the plate. The room was silent except for Lisa and Jen’s poorly suppressed giggles.
“Wait…” he said slowly, the realization dawning on his face. “YOU’RE Chef Claude? That restaurant… it’s all fake?”
I smiled sweetly. “I figured if you didn’t like my food, maybe you’d prefer something… curated.”
Lisa and Jen burst into laughter, and after a moment of stunned silence, Derek joined in, though his laugh was tinged with embarrassment.
“You got me,” he admitted. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
“I can’t believe you ate stale popcorn and called it ‘different,'” I replied.
Later that night, after our friends had gone home and Sophie was asleep, Derek and I sat on the sofa with real plates of chocolate cake.
“I’m really sorry,” he said, looking genuinely remorseful. “I felt… I don’t know, trapped, I guess. Everything changed so fast with Sophie, and those dinners out were like my escape.”
“You could have talked to me,” I said. “Instead of lying and making me feel like my cooking was the problem.”
“I know. I was selfish. And stupid.” He reached for my hand. “But you have to admit, your revenge was pretty brilliant.”
I smiled, but then grew serious. “This isn’t magically fixed with one apology, though. I need to know we’re a team.”
“We are,” he insisted. “From now on, let’s plan some takeout nights together. No more secrets, no more sneaking.”
“And maybe you could help cook a couple of nights a week?” I suggested.
“Deal.”
Derek kept his promise.
He started helping with dinner twice a week and made a point to compliment every meal, even when it was just frozen pizza.
He even volunteered to take night duty with Sophie occasionally so I could get a full night’s sleep.
As for “L’Amour du Goût,” I left the website up, just in case.
Because sometimes, even the most well-intentioned husbands need a reminder about what it means to be a good partner.
Here’s another story: When Clara’s husband dumps her gumbo into the trash as a “prank” for his growing social media following, her humiliation turns to quiet rage. Tired of being the target of his cruel jokes, she hatches a plan to expose his true colors — one that will flip the script on his twisted game.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
