My Husband and Son Chose the Neighbor's Leftovers Over Me,Now They're Begging Me to Come BackChapter 1
I found out by accident.
My son had been sneaking over to our new neighbor's apartment to eat her leftover food.
At first, I didn't make a scene. I just brought him home.
"Didn't Mommy make you dinner? I cooked all those dishes and you wouldn't touch a single one. You'd rather eat someone else's scraps? People are going to think I'm starving you."
"Don't ever do that again. Do you hear me?"
John Matthews threw a full-blown tantrum.
"I don't care! Aunt Nora Abbott's leftovers taste better than anything you make!"
Since talking to him clearly wasn't working, I gave him a spanking he wouldn't forget.
A few days later, he ran right back over there.
I told my husband to go get him.
Vincent Matthews walked out the door and didn't come back for ages.
So I went to the neighbor's apartment myself.
The moment I stepped inside, I saw the two of them sitting at Nora's dining table, shoveling down her leftovers like it was the best meal they'd ever had.
Vincent's chin was slick with grease. "Babe, no wonder Johnny won't eat your cooking. You're not even in the same league as Nora!"
"Mommy, I'd rather eat Aunt Nora's leftovers every single day than eat your food ever again!"
Fine. If this father-son duo loved other people's scraps so much, they could eat them for the rest of their lives.
……
John was impossibly picky. Every single day I came up with something new, rotating through recipes, trying every trick in the book. I'd even signed up for a cooking class just for him.
None of it mattered. The second I set a plate in front of him, his face would scrunch up in disgust. He wouldn't even take one bite.
Every meal was a battle. I'd coax, beg, bribe, perform. It was exhausting. Soul-crushing.
I'd convinced myself that I'd simply been dealt a child who hated eating. That it was just how he was wired.
Then I saw him at Nora's table.
John's cheeks were stuffed so full they bulged. He was still chewing when his chopsticks darted out to grab more. The plates in front of him held the barest remains of someone else's dinner: a few wilted vegetable leaves, a fish picked clean to the bone, a handful of scrambled egg scraps.
Leftovers. Obviously leftovers.
And my son was devouring them like a starving animal.
That was the moment I realized: my child could eat. He just wouldn't eat what I made.