The caption read: "Home-cooked meal tonight! It feels so nice having someone cook for you."
Something slammed into my chest. Hard.
So he could cook after all.
Ten years in America, and I had been the one cooking every single meal.
I remembered that winter. I'd come down with a high fever, a hundred and two degrees.
Two full days without eating a single thing.
"Robert, I really want some soup... Could you make me a bowl?"
He was watching a game. His brow creased when he heard me.
"I don't know how."
Eventually, he shrugged on his jacket with visible reluctance.
"I'll grab you something from the restaurant downstairs."
I waited forty minutes.
What came back was a cold bottle of milk and a burger, brought home by a man who'd already eaten his fill.
I'd wanted to cry so badly that night.
But later, I talked myself out of it.
Everyone has strengths and weaknesses.
I shouldn't expect too much from him.
Now I knew. It was never that he couldn't cook.
He just never wanted to cook for me.
The house sold. The car sold. Bank accounts closed.
Ten years of life compressed into a few boxes, a few documents, a few wire transfers, all within a single month.