Every meal I cooked felt like a test, but I wasn’t the one grading it. My husband, Daniel, sent photos of every dish to his mother, Carol, for approval. It started with spaghetti. Before taking a bite, he snapped a picture. Minutes later, Carol texted, “Sauce looks runny. Use less water.”

At first, I brushed it off. But it got worse—cookies were “overbaked,” steak “too rare,” chili “needed more cumin.” The final straw? My homemade lasagna. Daniel sent a picture, and Carol replied, “Looks dry. Did you forget the ricotta?”

That night, I decided to turn the tables. The next evening, I made Chicken Parmesan—his favorite. Before he could take a photo, I did. “What are you doing?” he asked. Smiling, I said, “Sending it to my mom.” Instead, I sent it to Carol: Hope it meets your standards. Should I throw it away? His phone buzzed, and he went pale. That night, he stopped taking pictures.

But later, I overheard him whispering to Carol: “I’ll do it secretly.” Rage burned in my chest. It wasn’t about food anymore—it was betrayal.

The next night, I made steak. Just as Daniel picked up his fork, I snapped a picture—of him. I sent it: Carol, should I let him eat or make him starve until he appreciates me? His face drained. His phone buzzed; he ignored it.

From then on, Daniel ate without a word. One night, he cooked for me. It was terrible. I smiled and said, “This is really good.” Because, finally, I had respect.