Chapter 5: Soup, Scandal, and a Stand

Lunch was ready soon enough. My wife made homemade chicken noodle soup—warm and delicious. Just seeing it made me want to cry. A warm home, a loving wife and daughter—if I hadn’t been so stubborn in my last life, this could have been a good life after all.

The smell filled the house, and for a moment, everything felt normal. I watched my wife ladle soup into bowls, her hands steady and sure. My daughter set the table, her little face serious as she lined up the spoons.

My mom, just like before, sat there waiting for us to serve her, like always. That set me off—I wanted to ask if her hands were broken. But my wife shot me a look and stood up first. I was about to stop her, but she shook her head at me.

I clenched my fists under the table, biting back the words. She had a plan, and I needed to trust her.

Then my mom turned to my daughter. “Let the adults eat first. I haven’t even opened my mouth, and you’re already in a hurry—what, you think you’re starving to death?”

Her voice was sharp, and my daughter shrank back, her appetite gone. I felt a flash of anger, but kept my mouth shut, waiting for the right moment.

My daughter was scolded for no reason and her eyes went red again. I walked over, patted her, and comforted her. “Go ahead and eat. It’s not about age—it’s about how you act. Respect is earned.”

I said it loud enough for everyone to hear, letting my mom know I wasn’t afraid to stand up for my child.

My mom slammed the table. “Watch it, who do you mean by that?”

Her voice was like a gunshot, but I didn’t flinch. I met her glare head-on.

Just as she did, my wife happened to bring over a bowl of soup. She ‘accidentally’ spilled the whole thing right onto my mom’s feet. The hot broth made my mom yelp in pain.

The sound was sharp and sudden, and for a second, everyone froze. Then the drama started.

“You heartless—”

My wife started crying too. “Mom, this is all we have. If you don’t like my cooking, you can’t just waste food like that. I brought your meal right to you, and you knocked it to the floor. I know you don’t like me or Emma, but what did we do to deserve you coming here to torment us?”

She crumpled onto a chair, her face in her hands. Her voice was raw, every word a plea for sympathy. Our daughter wailed, her cries echoing through the house. My heart broke all over again.

As she cried, our daughter joined in, wailing even louder. Soon, a crowd had gathered at the door again.

The neighbors were back, some still chewing, others with their phones out, ready to record the latest scandal for the church prayer chain or the next PTA meeting.

Someone saw the spilled soup and shook their head. “Wow, all that soup on the floor. If you don’t want to eat, fine, but wasting food is a real shame.”

Aunt Linda clucked her tongue. “There are folks in this town who’d be grateful for a hot meal, Carol.”

“Aunt Carol, if you don’t like your younger son, just don’t stay here. No need to make trouble. Both sons are your own, and we remember when you split up the property, the younger one didn’t get much. Now that things are finally a little better, you could at least not make it worse.”

Someone else piped up, “It’s not right to play favorites. You’re only hurting yourself.”

My mom, surrounded by people, started explaining, “I didn’t spill the soup—it was that useless daughter-in-law. I’m not bullying them, are you even listening to me?”

Her voice was desperate, but nobody was buying it. She looked around for support, but the room was against her.

Seeing my mom flustered and unable to defend herself reminded me of my past life. Back then, I served her well, but she went around telling everyone I starved her, wouldn’t give her food, and made her tough out her illnesses. Even when she broke her leg, she blamed my wife.

It was always someone else’s fault. She never took responsibility, not once. I see that now.

When my wife told me about it, I said Mom was just old and confused, and she should just put up with it. Now, thinking about the things I said and did, I wish I could slap myself. Why shouldn’t we speak up when we’re wronged? If she doesn’t appreciate being treated well, there’s no need to keep serving her.

The shame of my old excuses burned in my gut. I wanted to go back and shake that version of myself. No more. Never again.

Sure enough, once you let go, life gets a lot more comfortable. After this episode, my mom didn’t get any lunch. The whole neighborhood knew about it—except my brother and sister-in-law, who hid in their house and pretended not to hear.

It was almost funny, how fast word spread. By sundown, everyone in town would know what happened. My brother’s house stayed dark, the curtains drawn, as if they could hide from the truth.