He eyed the plate with contempt, fork held in his hairy fist like a weapon.

“What’s this meant to be when it’s at home then?”

Paula bristled, but managed to plaster a smile on her face.

“It’s spiced vegetable stew from the cookbook Angela bought me. It’s quite delicious, I promise,” she replied in the tone of voice usually reserved for coaxing toddlers into behaving.

She had spent the better part of the day on the stew; carefully slicing sweet potato, lashing the chickpeas in oil and garlic, making the perfect broth with just the right amount of cinnamon and turmeric. She had been delighted when she’d tasted it. It was the best thing she’d made in months, but her stomach had fallen when she’d thought of her husband’s reaction.

Maybe if I plated it just right, she allowed herself to think for a moment. But here he was looking at the plate like she had just served him dog shit.

He mashed the fork into the perfectly assembled layers of vegetables, stirring the contents of the stew...