“Or I can put the order in through Whole Foods,” I added. “Then you’re looking at roughly a hundred and ten dollars.”
“I am not paying for this,” Paul snapped, folding his arms across his chest. “This is ridiculous.”
“Fine.” I set my phone down on the table with perfect calm. “Then the arrangement changes. If the two of you don’t split this bill equally within the next five minutes, I’m calling a locksmith and having a separate lock installed on the kitchen door. I’ll be the only one with a key. From now on, I feed myself. And you, Paul, can live on instant ramen and bargain-bin hot dogs until the end of time. Oh, and starting next month, the utilities are entirely on you. I’m not a charity.”
The kitchen went dead silent. Outside, a car rolled past, the sound suddenly loud through the window. Paul was breathing heavily. He stared at me, searching my face for even the smallest flicker of doubt, for some familiar trace of wifely softness he could push against.
He found nothing.
I stood there loose-shouldered and steady, making it clear without another word that the decision had been made, signed, sealed, and was not up for appeal.
“This is blackmail,” he forced out through clenched teeth.
“No,” I corrected him. “These are consequences. The clock is running. Four minutes.”
Sarah began picking nervously at the strap of her overpriced handbag. She knew very well that her brother’s anger was no longer aimed only at me. She was the reason this whole mess had exploded into a real financial loss—her greed, her laziness, her belief that my work cost nothing.
“Paul…” she squeaked. “I’m really tight on money right now…”
“Sarah, shut up!” he suddenly barked, dumping his rage onto her. “Send your half.”
“But Ethan will kill me!”
“And my wife is about to put the kitchen under lock and key! Transfer it. Now.”
With trembling fingers and a face twisted into a mask of cosmic injustice, Sarah pulled out her phone. A minute later, a notification appeared on my screen: $37.50 received from Sarah. A moment after that, Paul’s transfer came through as well.
Without saying a word, I tapped the button to place the order.
“The key,” I reminded her, looking straight at my sister-in-law.
She reluctantly dug into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out the key ring with the little cat charm on it. Then she flung it onto the counter with a loud clatter and stormed into the hallway without a goodbye.
The front door slammed.
Paul remained seated at the table, staring into an empty mug. All his lordly swagger had drained out of him. What was left was a slouched, wounded middle-aged man who had just been handed an invoice for his own arrogance.
“Happy now?” he muttered. “You humiliated my sister. Turned dinner into a circus.”
“I’m thrilled, Paul,” I said honestly, picking up the key from the table. “I got my time back.”
I poured myself a cup of hot tea, took a chocolate from the cabinet, and sat down across from my husband.
“The delivery should be here in forty minutes. I asked the driver not to ring the intercom, so your delicate emotional system won’t be disturbed. You can meet him downstairs.”
Paul opened his mouth as if he intended to argue. Then he met my calm, icy stare and silently nodded instead.
An hour later, I was curled up on the living room couch under a soft throw blanket, reading a detective novel. In the kitchen, Paul was clattering dishes with theatrical force while reheating restaurant beef bourguignon.
And in my freezer sat tightly sealed containers of my perfect meatballs—meatballs that no one, ever again, would dare describe as a “free resource.”
Justice, much like revenge, is best served cold.
Preferably straight from the freezer.
A container for sister, a compliment for brother—
Someone else’s kitchen paid off after all.