I haven’t cooked a single meal for my husband in ten years. Aside from that, I think we’re a pretty “normal” family. We go out together as a family, and we even go out to eat. It’s just that I don’t cook for him. Our son, Daiki, is in fourth grade. He and I eat dinner together every night. This is what “normal” looks like for us. That’s what I’ve been telling myself, anyway.
That day, I made the choice to stop cooking for him. And my husband agreed to it. But now, ten years later, I’m constantly torn between feeling like this is fine and wondering if it really is. Even Daiki must want to eat with his dad. I’ve just been bottling up these feelings with nowhere to go, doing nothing but maintaining the status quo.