“What one word would you use to define your marriage to Harvey?” The therapist asked.
Agnes sighed and dabbed at the tear that came out of her eye. “I would define my marriage as a failure,” she said. “How else can I explain why, after 20 years together and with three children, he would leave me for a younger woman?”
“Your failure or his failure,” the therapist asked.
“Mostly mine, I think,” Agnes responded. “I guess I should have seen the signs and been more proactive. By the time I recognized that something was wrong, it was too late.”
“That was five years ago, Agnes. You need to stop beating yourself up and move on.”
Agnes nodded her head. “Yes, I know. And guess what? I have a date tomorrow night.”
“That’s wonderful,” the therapist said. “Tell me about it.”
“I’m very excited,” Agnes admitted. “And very nervous. I met him at the grocery store. I looked at what was in his cart and he was buying mostly frozen dinners. I couldn’t help myself and I started to laugh. He gave me a dirty look.”
“Interesting,” said the therapist.
“Yes,” Agnes replied. “So I asked him when was the last time he had a home cooked meal. He told me that his wife had died two years earlier and he either ate out or nuked his meals in the microwave. So I invited him to come over to dinner.”
“I’m proud of you, Agnes.”
“I’m making homemade cream of mushroom soup, beef brisket, and potatoes au gratin. And my chocolate mousse cake for dessert.”
“I’m sure he’ll love it,” the therapist said.
“I know,” said Agnes exuberantly. “The one thing I know for sure that I’m not a failure at is cooking.”
This is a twofer. It’s written for today’s one-word prompt, “mushroom,” as well as in response to Rachel Poli’s Time to Write Random Words challenge. This weeks words are “define, “soup,” and “failure.”