A few minutes later, I head into the kitchen dressed in slacks and a shirt. She's placing our breakfast on the table. There's something entirely fucked-up with this picture and I scowl. I say nothing as she serves me and then sits on the opposite side of the table. She looks down at her plate and remains quiet. Why the hell does it even bother me?

The food smells delicious, I think grumpily. "I'm not accustomed to someone cooking for me." It's my white flag and she takes it by ...