I had no idea what was happening. Between sleepless nights and the chaos of a newborn, life had become one big blur. And then, Derek started coming home “not hungry.” I thought it was just stress, but when I started putting the pieces together, I discovered something that made my blood run cold. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. No, I planned a revenge so sweet and clever that he’d never forget.
“Shhh, it’s okay, baby girl,” I whispered, bouncing my four-month-old daughter, Sophie, 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.”
The days were melting together. My maternity leave felt like a strange time warp, where I couldn’t tell if it was Tuesday or Saturday. Even though I was running on caffeine and quick snacks, I still managed to cook dinner every night.
Nothing fancy, just basic comfort food to keep us going through the newborn trenches—stir-fry, chili, mac and cheese with hidden veggies. Simple meals for simple, tiring days.
When Derek came home that evening, I smiled, though my eyes felt heavy. “Hey, dinner’s almost ready. Just warming up some of yesterday’s chili.”
He kissed me on the forehead, but barely looked at the food. “Thanks, but I’m not really hungry. I had a big lunch with the Johnson account today.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to hide the disappointment. “Well, it’ll keep if you want some later.”
This wasn’t the first time. For weeks, Derek had been avoiding my meals with excuse after excuse.
“Heavy food makes me sluggish at night,” he’d said last week.
“I’m trying to eat lighter in the evenings,” he’d claimed the week before that.
Before Sophie, Derek had always cleaned his plate, sometimes even asking for seconds. So what had changed? My mind started racing.
One morning, after being up with Sophie since 4 a.m., I collapsed onto the couch while she napped. Desperate for a break, I pulled up our shared banking app to see if we could afford a new electric rocker seat. That’s when I saw it.
Charges from various restaurants: $63 at The Golden Fork Bistro, $54 at Eastwood Steakhouse, $48 at Louie’s Urban Tacos. My sleep-deprived brain blinked. Was I imagining this? But as I scrolled through weeks of transactions, it was clear—Derek had been eating out a lot. Almost every day. And all while telling me he wasn’t hungry or had eaten a big lunch.
My hands shook as I took screenshots and sent them to Derek with a simple text: “Full yet?”
His reply came quickly: “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 the message. I felt like I’d been slapped, but instead of lashing out, I took a deep breath and typed: “Okay. Thanks for telling me. 😊”
And just like that, a plan began to form.
After I caught him, Derek started ordering takeout more openly—bringing it home “to share.” But there was a catch: he never ordered anything for me. It was always a solo meal that he ate on the couch while I nursed Sophie. I was lucky if I even got a few fries. It was as if he thought this made everything okay, but it only stoked the fire inside me.
One night, after Sophie finally fell asleep, I stayed up late on my laptop. By morning, my alter ego, “Chef Claude,” was born.
Using Canva, I created a sleek website. I designed professional menus, bought a burner phone from Walgreens, and set up a fake email account. L’Amour du Goût — “luxury for the everyday palate” — was ready to serve.
The next step? Setting the trap.
When Derek’s usual delivery arrived that evening, I slipped a glossy card into his bag while he was in the bathroom. It read: “Enjoyed your order? Try something exclusive. No menu repeats. Ever. Text this number to be added to our exclusive client list.”
The number led straight to my burner phone.
Three days passed without a word. I was starting to think Derek hadn’t noticed the card when my phone buzzed: “Saw your card. I’m interested. – Derek.”
I smiled. It was go time. I replied as Chef Claude: “Bienvenue! Your private chef journey begins tomorrow. Deliveries at 6:30 p.m. Text CONFIRM to start.”
His reply was quick: “CONFIRM.”
Hook, line, and sinker.
The next day, while Derek was at work and Sophie was napping, I prepared the first “luxury” meal. I went all out and made the blandest, most depressing food I could think of, but dressed it up like it was something extravagant:
Air Poached Root Slivers (boiled carrots), Deconstructed Gluten Reduction Cake (a rice cake with mayo), Basil Whisper Soup (warm water with a basil leaf).
I arranged everything in shiny containers, wrote a note on fancy cardstock that said “Chef Claude’s Daily Creation,” and tucked it in the back of the garage fridge.
At 6:25 p.m., I excused myself, snuck to the garage, and placed the “gourmet” meal on our front step. I knocked on the door and rushed back inside.
From the kitchen, I listened as Derek unpacked his “meal.” I was expecting complaints or some sort of reaction, but instead, there was silence.
Thirty minutes later, I walked in with Sophie in my arms to find Derek watching TV, the containers empty.
“How was your dinner?” I asked.
“Fine,” he replied, 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 pieces of stale popcorn), and Ambrosia Reduction (a melted gummy bear on a spoon).
I did the whole delivery routine again, and once again, Derek ate it without complaint. I could tell by the look on his face he wasn’t enjoying it, but for some reason, he wouldn’t admit it.
By night three, when I delivered a single long-stemmed 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 for the final part of my plan.
That weekend, I invited my two closest mom friends, Lisa and Jen, over for dinner. They’d been in on the plan from the start, helping me brainstorm the ridiculous food names and supporting me every step of the way.
“He still has no idea?” Lisa asked as she peeled potatoes for our very real 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 immediately sniffed the air. “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.
“Bon appétit. Chef Claude sends his regards.”
Derek stared at the plate, then at me, then back at the plate. The room fell silent except for Lisa and Jen’s poorly suppressed giggles.
“Wait…” he said slowly, the realization dawning on him. “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, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
“I can’t believe you ate stale popcorn and called it ‘different,’” I teased.
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 softly. “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.”
True to his word, Derek started helping with dinner twice a week and complimented every meal, even when it was just frozen pizza. He also volunteered for night duty with Sophie so I could get some much-needed 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 really means to be a good partner.
