I was away on a business trip when my wife called out of the blue to tell me she was selling my father's restaurant.

"Julian Dickerson, I've already decided to transfer the restaurant to someone else. A hundred and eighty thousand dollars."

I froze for two seconds, then demanded to know why she hadn't discussed something this major with me first.

Her answer came without a shred of guilt. "I'm the legal representative of the restaurant. I have every right to make this call."

"Your father said the same thing when he was alive."

"A hundred and eighty thousand is a fair price. If I think it's reasonable, I'm selling it. What's the problem?"

She hung up before I could respond.

I called back. Her phone was off.

My whole body shook with anger. I sent her a message.

Meg, if you actually sell that restaurant...

We're done. I'm filing for divorce.

……

I canceled every meeting on my schedule and caught the next flight home.

I landed at five in the afternoon and went straight for a cab.

I tried calling her on the way. Still off.

When I reached our building, I was about to head inside when I spotted a black Mercedes parked right outside the entrance.

Meg Henson was sitting in the passenger seat, smiling, talking to whoever was behind the wheel.

I stepped back behind the row of parcel lockers.

The driver was a man I'd never seen before. Mid-thirties.

He rested his arm on the window frame and smiled. "So we're all set on that deal?"

Meg nodded.

"Don't worry. Julian's away on business. He won't be back for a week."

"You sure he won't cause trouble? It's his father's place, after all."

Meg let out a cold laugh. "I'm the legal representative. I sell it if I want to sell it. Nobody can stop me."

"Besides, his father said it himself when he was alive—the restaurant was mine to manage."

"Julian's never around anyway, always off on some trip. What's he going to say?"

"Worst case, we get divorced."

The man laughed. "Then we're good."

Meg laughed too, leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek.

He pulled her closer, and the two of them started making out right there in the car.

My knuckles went white around the handle of my suitcase.

They exchanged a few more words, and then the man drove off.

Meg grabbed her purse and walked into the building, her heels clicking sharply against the tile. Clack. Clack. Clack.

I stepped out from behind the lockers and stood downstairs. I lit a cigarette.

The early March wind still had a bite to it. Ash scattered from the tip and settled on the toe of my shoe.

I stared at that tiny smear of gray and thought of my father in his final days, lying in that hospital bed, gripping my hand.

"Son, I'm leaving the restaurant in your wife's hands. Don't overthink it."

"You're too busy with work to split your attention. She's got ambition—she's always wanted to be involved in running the place. Don't let this come between you two."

I told him I understood.

He wheezed for a long time, then added, "It's good that your wife has ideas. But remember—that restaurant is our family's foundation."

I nodded.

Three days later, he was gone.

I kept vigil at the funeral home all night. Meg stayed by my side the entire time, crying harder than anyone.

Back then, I thought my father had been right about her.

Now, looking back? What a goddamn joke.

I dragged my suitcase out of the complex and found a small restaurant on the street.

I ordered four dishes and two bottles of baijiu.

The owner came over to pour water, glanced at my suitcase, and didn't ask questions.

The food arrived. I didn't touch a bite. I poured a glass and downed it first.

The liquor burned its way down, and my eyes stung.

My mother left when I was three.

My father never remarried. He started with a street stall, getting up at three every morning, pushing a cart to the wholesale market for ingredients.

In winter, his hands cracked and bled from the cold. In summer, the skin peeled off his back from the sun.

Eight years of that before he saved enough to rent his first storefront.

Another ten before he owned all three floors of the building.

He had no hobbies his entire life. All he ever loved was standing over that stove.

When I was a kid, I'd do my homework right there in the restaurant after school while Dad worked the wok beside me.

The grease smoke always left his eyes red and watery. He'd just grin and say he was used to it.

Later, I got into college, started working, traveled more for business. Every time I came home, I'd swing by the restaurant and sit for a while. He'd cook two dishes for me himself, sit across the table watching me eat, asking about everything under the sun.

The last time I went was a week before he was admitted to the hospital.

He was standing by the entrance smoking, watching the customers come and go, his eyes full of something he couldn't let go of.

I told myself: A few more years. Once things slow down, I'll come back and help him.

I never got the chance.

I filled my second glass and picked up my phone to text Connor Winters. He was my oldest friend, ran his own accounting firm.

"Need you to run a plate for me. Sending it now."

He replied instantly: "What's going on?"

I sent him the plate number.

"A Mercedes? Why are you running that? Whose car?"

"Some guy. I don't know him."

A few seconds of silence. Then my phone rang.

"Julian, spell it out for me. What's happening?"

I gave him the short version.

He swore on the other end of the line. "Where are you?"

"Drinking."

"Stay put. I'm coming."

"Don't bother. Just find out who the guy is."

He swore a few more times and hung up.

I kept drinking.

Two bottles of baijiu gone, and I still hadn't touched the food.

The owner's wife came over with the check, glanced at the empty bottles, opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, then thought better of it.

I scanned the code to pay, stood up, and walked out.

When I got home, Meg was curled up on the couch watching TV.

She looked up when I walked in, startled for a second, then frowned. "Why are you back?"

"Trip got canceled last minute."

She gave a flat "oh" and turned her eyes back to the screen. "Have you eaten? There are leftovers in the kitchen."

I stared at her profile and felt, suddenly, like I was looking at a stranger.

Seven years of marriage. I traveled for work over a dozen times a year. Every time I came home, she'd greet me warmly, ask what I wanted to eat, then bustle around the kitchen. Even if I got in at two in the morning, there'd be a hot meal waiting on the stove.

Now she said: There are leftovers in the kitchen.

I didn't say anything. I dragged my suitcase into the bedroom and dropped my bags on the floor.

When I came back out, she was still watching TV. She'd just shifted positions, her feet propped up on the coffee table.

"I want to talk about the restaurant again."

I stood in the middle of the living room.

She turned her head, her expression already impatient. "What's there to talk about? I've already worked it all out with the buyer. We're signing the contract tomorrow."

"A hundred and eighty thousand dollars. You don't think that's low?"

"They had it appraised. That's what it's worth. Besides, the restaurant business is brutal right now. We should sell while someone's still willing to buy."

"That restaurant was my father's entire life!"

She stood up, her voice rising. "There you go again, your father, your father! If I hadn't been running that place, it would've gone under years ago!"

"Do you have any idea how hard it is out there? Do you know how exhausting it is dealing with customers and suppliers every single day?"

"You don't know anything. All you do is go to work and travel!"

I looked at her and spoke slowly, every word deliberate. "That still doesn't give you the right to sell the restaurant without even talking to me."

"Talk about what? I'm the legal representative. I have the authority to decide."

"Did you see the message I sent you? If you go through with selling that restaurant, we're getting a divorce."

Meg froze. Then she laughed. A thin, contemptuous laugh.

"Julian, are you serious right now?" She folded her arms and tilted her head, looking at me like I was a child throwing a tantrum. "You want a divorce over me selling a restaurant? You think marriage is some kind of game?"

I pressed my lips into a tight line. "That's not just some ordinary restaurant."

"How is it not ordinary? It's a building, a few private dining rooms, a handful of tables. That's it."

"Sure, your dad spent his whole life on it, but that was his thing. What does it have to do with me?"

"I married you, not that restaurant."

I frowned. "That's not what you used to say."

"Used to?" She let out a cold laugh. "Exactly. Used to. I went along with whatever you said back then because I didn't want to fight. I didn't want problems between us."

"But I've had time to think, and I'm done. I'm not spending the rest of my life chained to some run-down restaurant, dealing with customers who get wasted and cause scenes."

"I have my own plans. I don't want to manage that place anymore. I want a better life, a more relaxed life. Is that so wrong?"

After a long silence, I asked, "Who'd you sell it to?"

"My high school classmate, Oswald Gilbert." She shrugged. "Good thing it was someone I knew, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten that much for it."

I looked at her without responding.

My stare made her uncomfortable. She glanced away. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I had someone appraise it." I spoke slowly, deliberately. "Based on the reputation that restaurant has built over the years, plus the monthly revenue, it's worth a lot more than a hundred and eighty thousand dollars."

She blinked, then scowled. "Who did you get to appraise it? They were talking out of their ass. Do you have any idea what the restaurant industry looks like right now?"

"I know exactly what it looks like." I nodded. "And deep down, so do you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She shot to her feet. "Oswald offered a fair price. You think restaurants are easy to sell right now? I negotiated with him for ages before he even agreed to take it off my hands."

"Negotiated for ages? When did these negotiations start?"

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"While I was away on my business trip?" I pressed. "Or earlier than that?"

"What are you getting at?"

She glared at me.

"Julian, if you've got something to say, just say it. Stop with the passive-aggressive crap."

"I'm not getting at anything." My expression didn't change. "I just want to know when you decided to sell the restaurant, and how the deal came together."

"We first talked about it last year. Oswald runs a restaurant chain now. He liked our location and wanted to acquire it for one of his brands."

I kept pushing. "A hundred and eighty thousand. Was that your number, or his?"

Something flickered in her eyes. "Does it matter?"

"It does," I said. "If it was his number, then he took advantage of you not knowing the market."

"And if it was yours, then you sold my father's legacy for pennies."

Her face changed.

"Julian! You'd better explain yourself. Who sold anything for pennies?"

"I've been running that restaurant for two years. I know better than anyone what it's worth!"

"Then tell me. How much?"

Her mouth opened again, but no words came.

I watched her. Waited.

"The contract's already done anyway." She turned her face away. "There's no point arguing about it."

"Done?"

"We sign tomorrow." She paused. "The letter of intent is already signed."

I said nothing.

She waited a moment, and when I stayed silent, she spoke again. "Julian, I know you think of it as something your dad left behind. I know it's hard to let go."

"But have you actually thought about it? What are we keeping it for?"

"You never bothered with it. I've had enough of it. While we can still get a decent price, why not just sell and be done with it?"

"A hundred and eighty thousand is a decent price?"

"Maybe not to you, but it is to me." Her voice grew sharp, the words tumbling out faster. "All these years together, what have you ever given me? All you do is travel for work. Have you ever once taken care of things at home? Have you ever once dealt with the restaurant? Now that I'm selling it, now you decide to show up and have an opinion."