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."

I shot back, "So you're selling the restaurant because I travel too much for work?"

"Don't flatter yourself." She let out a cold laugh. "I'm selling it because I'm sick of waiting on those people. I want an easier life. Is that a crime?"

"No."

"Then it's settled." She stood up. "We sign the contract tomorrow. Once the money comes through, we split it fifty-fifty. You want a divorce? Fine. I couldn't care less."

I looked her in the eyes. "You're serious?"

"Dead serious."

I nodded. "Alright. Don't come crying to me later."

She scoffed, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the bedroom. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls.

I stood in the living room for a while, then went to the guest room, grabbed a blanket, and lay down on the couch.

I couldn't sleep.

My phone buzzed.

I picked it up. A message from Connor.

"Julian, I found it. The car is registered to a guy named Oswald Gilbert. Runs a restaurant company."

"This guy's no small fish."

Several attachments followed.

I read through every document carefully, then replied: "You free tomorrow? Come with me to the restaurant."

"You got it!"

I set the phone down and closed my eyes.

Some time passed. I was drifting off when the phone rang.

I picked it up. Mrs. Henson.

I answered, but before I could get a word out, she was already tearing into me.

"Julian! What the hell do you think you're doing? You want to divorce Meg?"

"What has she ever done to you? She's been running that household all by herself, plus managing that whole restaurant. You think that's easy? And now you just want to walk away? Are you even human?"

I listened. Said nothing.

"Let me tell you something. If you dare divorce her, I will make your life a living hell!"

"Don't think you can push the Hensons around! Meg gave you seven years. Seven years! And what did you ever give her?"

"That run-down restaurant your father left behind? She managed it for you! Worked herself to the bone every single day, and now that she wants to sell it, you throw a fit?"

"It's not even yours! She's the legal representative! She can sell it whenever she damn well pleases, and there's not a thing you can do about it!"

I finally spoke. "Are you done?"

She faltered.

"What did you just say?"

"I said, if you're done, I'm hanging up."

"Don't you dare! You're going to explain yourself right now!"

I hung up and powered off the phone.

The living room was pitch black. I sat up and lit a cigarette.

Smoke curled upward, dissolving against the ceiling.

I thought about my father's funeral. Meg had held me and cried.

Through her tears, she'd told me we'd build a good life together. That she'd take care of the restaurant. That my father could rest easy.

In the beginning, she went to the restaurant every week. She'd sit down with the chefs to discuss new dishes, hold meetings with the waitstaff, reconcile the books at the end of every month to calculate profits.

Then, gradually, her visits tapered off.

I asked her about it a few times. She said she was exhausted and wanted to hire a general manager.

I agreed.

After that, she stopped checking the books altogether. Whatever the manager reported, she accepted at face value. She just stopped caring.

I figured she was worn out. I didn't push it.

Looking back now, that was probably when she'd started planning to sell.

I finished the cigarette and lay back down.

I drifted off at some point. When I opened my eyes again, daylight filled the room.

The next morning, Connor and I walked into the restaurant.

It was the pre-lunch rush. Servers were setting tables, and the rhythmic thud of knives on cutting boards echoed from the kitchen.

A few of the longtime employees froze when they saw me walk in, then quickly came over to say hello.

I greeted each of them. They looked at me with something unspoken behind their eyes.

One of them opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, and said nothing.

Connor leaned in behind me and murmured, "Julian, something feels off in here."

I didn't respond.

I made my way to the kitchen entrance. William Finch, the head chef, was prepping ingredients at his station. He looked up, saw me, and his knife went still.