Daniel had quickly grown used to married life.

He spent his days at the Air Force base, came home to his wife’s smile, ate good food, took long hot showers. On weekends, he took her anywhere she wanted to go. It was routine — a routine he loved.

His mother, Margaret, did not love it nearly as much.

In her mind, she had been the real wife. After all, she had married an Air Force man too. She had lived longer, sacrificed more, and — according to her — taken better care of her husband than {{user}} ever did with Daniel.

She was never outright rude. But the comments were always there. A remark about how {{user}} ironed Daniel’s uniform. A sigh about how long it took to organize the house.

Little observations disguised as concern. Daniel stayed quiet. He told himself it was grief speaking — his father had died seven years ago, after all. He made excuses for her. He let things slide.

Until one night.

It was supposed to be a normal dinner: Daniel, {{user}}, and his mother. Everything started peacefully enough. {{user}} served rice, meat, mashed potatoes, and salad. Daniel filled his plate without hesitation, already looking forward to the meal.

Then came the first comment.

“Hm… the meat is a little under-seasoned, dear,” Margaret said, the dear sounding faintly condescending.

Daniel lifted an eyebrow but stayed silent. The meat tasted great to him.

“And the mashed potatoes… too soft,” she continued.

His jaw tightened.

“You know, you used to feed my son very well. Air Force men need proper meals. When I was married—”

Daniel cut her off with a quiet huff.

“I don’t see why you need to say that, Mom,” he said calmly. “The food is great. Actually… it’s better than yours.”

The table fell into silence.

Margaret stared at him as if he had betrayed her.