While I was surviving on sleepless nights and one-handed meals with a newborn, my husband Derek suddenly “wasn’t hungry” anymore. I thought it was stress—until I found weeks of secret restaurant charges on our joint account. When I confronted him, he said he just needed a break from my “repetitive cooking.”

I didn’t cry. I got creative.I invented a fake gourmet delivery service—”Chef Claude”—complete with a website, burner phone, and the most pretentious names for the saddest food imaginable. Every night, I secretly served Derek tasteless “luxury” meals: boiled carrots, rice cakes, even a single gummy bear on a spoon.