The Day My Life Imploed.

Reedsy #511, food for Thought, 2026 Jul 3

Prompt #2: Include a scene in which someone is cooking, eating, or drinking.

THE DAY MY LIFE IMPLODED

It was just supposed to be a regular dinner out. No big deal. Just Owen and I getting together with our friends, Carla and Ben. Something we’ve done a hundred times before. No celebration, just friends getting together for a meal.

Or so I thought.

Earlier in the week—Tuesday, I think—Carla called me to see if Owen and I wanted to get together Bellamy’s for dinner on Friday night.

“How about seven o’clock?” she suggested. I agreed.

Later that same night, when I told Owen about the dinner, he seemed less than enthusiastic. We were sitting in the family room—Owen doing something on his tablet, me reading.

“Oh, right,” I said, looking over at Owen. “Carla called and invited us out to dinner at the pub for Friday. Seven o’clock. I said yes.”

“Hmmmm. Friday night. Hmmm. I guess.” Yeah, not chomping at the bit.

“You okay?” I asked. “Do you want me to call and cancel? We can do it another night.”

“No, we should get it over with.”

I looked at him. “Get it over with?” I asked. Weird answer.

He looked surprised and a bit confused. “I just mean, that it’s been a while since we’ve gone out to dinner with them, that’s all. It’s time.”

Still confused, I asked him. “Time for what?”

He just looked from me to the space above my head, and back again. “Time for dinner. That’s all. It’s time for the four of us to get together for dinner.” Then he got up and walked away. End of conversation. I remember wondering what was up his butt, but honestly, didn’t have the energy to confront him. Let him sulk.

So, Friday came and we were all supposed to meet at the pub. Owen and I arrived first, a little before seven. Apparently, Carla had reserved a quiet table in the small overflow room. Weird, but you know, much easier to talk. Bellamy’s was a popular spot—one of those places like Cheers, “where everybody knows your name.” There’s always a lot of chatter and laughter. As Kristal, the hostess, walked us to our table, I waved at a bunch of people I knew. Bellamy’s was a neighbourhood gem—a local watering hole with good food, good people. I noticed that Owen wasn’t paying attention to our friends. He was walking ahead, his eyes focussed on the floor in front of him.

After Kristal sat us, Benji, our server, came over and took our drink orders. Owen, an old beer hound, ordered a coffee—completely out of character. Something was definitely up.

I looked from Owen to Benji and snorted. “Okay, to make up the difference, Benji, I’ll have a bottle of the French Cab Sav. Two glasses in case someone changes his mind.” I nodded towards Owen, and smiled.

Benji laughed. “Coming right up,” and disappeared.

Our drinks appeared before our dinner companions. I poured a glass of wine, and watched the door for our friends. It was ten minutes after seven, and they still hadn’t shown up. I pulled out my phone.

“What are you doing?” asked Owen—the first thing he’d said since we’d arrived fifteen minutes ago. “I’m texting Carla—to see where they are.”

“Don’t!” he said, way more forcefully than necessary. “She’ll be here.”

What was that? She, not they. I was getting a bad feeling about this.

I was just about to ask Owen what was going on, when Carla rushed in. “Sorry,” she said sitting down between Owen and I.

“Where’s Ben?” I asked.

She looked from me to Owen, then back at me. “At home.”

Before I could ask why she hadn’t just cancelled if he couldn’t make it, Benji reappeared. Without waiting, Carla ordered. “Vodka tonic. Double.” Benji nodded and disappeared.

Okay, alarm bells were going off now. Carla was a wine drinker like myself. I could count on two hands the number of times I’d seen her drink a mixed drink over the span of our friendship.

I smiled a small smile, my nerves causing my hands to shake. “What’s happening here?” I asked, looking from one to the other.

Owen looked at Carla then at me. “I want a divorce,” he said.

“Pardon?” I said, stupidly.

He let out a slow breath and talked slowly. “I want a divorce.”

I looked at Carla, then back at Owen, my stomach sinking. Carla opened her purse, and pulled out a file folder and slid it across to me. “We’re together.”

“What the hell?” I said, anger and hurt welling up. “You’re my friend, and you’re telling me that you and my husband of twenty-six years are together? Romantically together?”

Owen shrugged his shoulders like this was no big deal. It definitely was a big deal. “We’re soulmates,” he said, grabbing her hand.

“Please don’t do that in front of me,” I said looking pointedly at their entwined fingers.. They each pulled their hands away.

I looked down at the folder on the table. “And these are the divorce papers?”

Owen nodded. “I had them drawn up two weeks ago. Just sign where the sticky tabs are.”

“Two weeks? Two weeks? You’ve been waiting two weeks to serve me divorce papers? Why?” I looked from one to the other. Neither of them said anything.

Cowards.

“Ben knows?” I asked.

Carla nodded her head. “That’s why he’s not here. I told him just before I left to drive over here.”

Benji arrived with Carla’s drink, read the room, dropped the drink and almost ran back into the main bar. Carla picked up the drink and slammed it in one giant gulp.

I hope you vomit, I thought. And choke on your tongue. Not very charitable, but, at that moment, very honest.

I slowly brought my wine up to my lips, and sipped. I opened the folder. Owen and Carla watched me. “You can go,” I said, not looking up from the papers in the folder. “Don’t forget to pay for your drinks. And, Owen? Don’t be there when I get home.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” whined Owen.

“I don’t care, just not at home,” I said. I went back to pretending I was reading the papers. They both got up and sprinted out of the the room.

I was alone with my thoughts. And my wine. And my divorce decree.

So, I read and drank wine. When Benji showed his face again, I thought about food, decided no, and just asked for the bill. I would finish my wine and walk home. I wasn’t going to waste a perfectly lovely bottle of Cab Sav because my best friend and my husband had decided to tank my life—I was going to drink every drop of that bad-boy.

Divorce.

Damn.

They (whomever they are) say that divorce is one of life’s big stressors—along with death of a spouse (right now I could get behind that one), severe illness, job loss, and moving or changing living conditions. So, as long as I managed to not kill Owen, I was now facing two of the biggest life stressors—divorce and a change in living conditions. Twenty minutes ago, I was not facing any type of major life upheaval, just looking forward to dinner with friends. Twenty minutes ago divorce happened to other people. Twenty minutes ago I had a best friend named Carla. Twenty minutes ago I had a husband named Owen.

I sipped my wine and quietly seethed.

They torpedoed my life, and got to waltz off together into the sunset—start a new life, while I was left alone to sort out the shambles of my life.

Fuck you, Owen. And fuck you, Carla. Rot in hell, both of you!

Who was going to tell the kids? Definitely not me. Their dad could explain why he was sleeping with my best friend—his choice, his responsibility. Not a cool dad anymore, just a horny middle-aged bastard.

Damn it! Carla and Ben were Sara’s godparents. I idly wondered if I could have godparent-hood revoked. Was there a form, or would I have to do it in person? I had no idea.

“Mind if I sit down?”

I looked up and gasped. Ben. I wondered if I looked as bad as he did—pale, slightly dishevelled, messy hair, like he’d been running his hands through it over and over.

I pointed to the three available seats. “Definitely. Pick a seat.”

He sat where his wife had been sitting, to my left.

He looked at me, sorrow, anger, confusion, all playing on his face. “So …” he started. I poured him some wine and slid the glass towards him. “Thank you.” He raised it to his lips and sipped.

We sat for a couple of seconds, each of us mired in our own misery. My phone buzzed. I silenced it, and slipped it into my pocket.

“Yeah,” I said. “It seems that our spouses are cheating sons-of-bitches.”

He nodded. “It does.”

I looked at him. There were so many questions I hadn’t asked Owen and Carla—they had blindsided me. Maybe Ben knew some of the answers to my questions. “Do you know how long?” I asked him.

He stared down at the table. “A little over six months. Since your New Year’s Eve party.”

“What!” I said, shocked.

“Yeah,” he said swirling his wine. “Remember, I went home early because I had a headache? And Owen drove Carla home after the party?” I remembered. I stayed and cleaned up then went to bed. An abundance of wine make sleep come easy. I vaguely remembered Owen coming to bed, but I had no idea what time it was.

“Yeah,” said Ben. “Apparently making out in cars is not just a teenager thing.” He took another drink of wine.

I looked at Ben. “Did you know?” I asked.

He looked conflicted. “I knew something was wrong. I just didn’t know what.” He shook his head, then looked at me. “You?”

“Same. Owen just seemed preoccupied.” I paused, thinking back. “He did start going to the gym in January.” I paused again. “But he never got any fitter. And his gym clothes never needed washing.” I paused. “I’m such an idiot,” I said, shaking my head.

Ben looked at me and nodded slowly. “Carla started going to yoga three or four times a week.” He looked at me, realization dawning. “Evening classes.”

“Fuckers.” I said.

Ben smiled a small sad smile. “Literally.”

“What happened at home tonight?”

He shrugged. “She had a bag packed at the door. I asked her about it. She told me. No preamble, just ‘I want a divorce.’ They were going to tell us together, here.” He looked around the room, his face sad.

I looked at him. “Why would they tell us here?”

Ben sat back and crossed his arms. “Probably so we wouldn’t make a scene in public. They didn’t want screaming and fighting, I guess.”

I snorted. “Like they’re worth a public meltdown.” I looked at him. “What are you going to do?”

He rubbed his face, looked at the ceiling, looked back at me. “I have no idea.” He paused. “Probably get myself a divorce lawyer. You?”

I topped up our wine, and said. “Probably the same. Maybe find the two of them and torture them until they feel the pain I’m feeling right now. Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know.” Pause.

Ben smiled. “They’re not worth it.”

I sipped some more wine. And nodded “You’re right,” I said. “They are definitely not worth it.

We finished drinking the wine, paid the bill, and left the pub. Ben got into his car and I walked home. He’d offered me a ride, but I declined.

When I got home, I realized it was no longer “our” home. We’d probably have to sell it. I almost started to cry. It was the home we had raised our children in.

I walked around the house looking at things that were “ours”—souvenirs from vacations, furniture we’d bought, photos of us as a family. It was too much. I went to bed and fell asleep thinking about the mass of things that I’d have to do to untangle our two lives.

The knock woke me up. It was little after eleven. My heart started pounding in my chest. Nobody likes a knock on the door at night. I crept to the door, not wanting to open it, not wanting to find out what new hell was waiting for me.

They knocked again.

I took a deep breath, and opened the door, keeping the screen door locked. “Yes?” I said.

“Nina Picard?”

I nodded.

“I’m Detective Terry Waits. This is my partner Carlos Ito.” They both held out their IDs. “We’d like to come in an speak with you.”

I didn’t open the door. “Why? What’s happened?”

The detectives looked at each other. “We’d prefer to do this inside, if you don’t mind.”

I unlocked the screen door, and the pair entered.

“Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?” asked Detective Ito.

I led them into the family room. They sat. I sat.

Detective Waits spoke. “Mrs. Picard, we’re sorry to inform you that your husband has been killed in an automobile explosion earlier this evening.”

I stared at them. “What?”

“Earlier tonight, the car that Mr. Picard was a passenger in exploded while travelling westbound on Georgia Street, between Rutgers Avenue and Cotton Avenue.”

“Oh my God.” My hands covered my face.

“The car was registered to Carla Esposito. She also died at the scene. Did you know Mrs. Esposito?”

I looked at the detectives. “She’s my best friend.”

“When was the last time you saw your husband?”

“This evening at dinner. We were supposed to meet Carla and her husband Ben for dinner at Bellamy’s pub. Only Carla showed up. Ben decided to not join us for dinner.”

“Do you know why he didn’t join you?”

“No. Yes.” I took a deep breath. “Carla and Owen were having an affair. They chose tonight to tell us both, but Ben found out at home, and decided not to come. Owen and Carla left together.”

The detectives looked at each other.

“Tonight?” said Detective Ito. “They told you tonight?”

“Yes. They planned to ambush us.”

“Can you tell us where you were this evening? What happened at the pub?”

So, I told them everything that had happened from walking into the pub to being awakened by their door knock a little after eleven o’clock—about Carla and Owen leaving together, about Ben coming in after they’d left, about the wine, about commiserating.

“What happened?” I asked, looking form Waits to Ito. “Why did the car blow up?”

“Our investigators determined that the explosion was caused by a bomb, probably detonated by a cell phone.”

“Oh my God. Someone killed them?”

“Is there anyone who would want to hurt your husband?”

I almost laughed. “No. Owen’s an accountant at a manufacturing factory that makes screws.”

Detective Waits looked at me. “Do you know why someone would plant a bomb in Mrs. Esposito’s car?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. She’s—was—a criminal defence lawyer. A client?” I looked at them. ”There have been a few times over the years where she’s had to have protection because one of her clients was unhappy with the outcome of a trial.” Detective Waits wrote the information in her notebook.

“What does Mr. Esposito do for a living?” she asked.

“Construction site engineer.”

“And yourself?”

“Forensic accountant.”

Then I started to cry. I couldn’t help it. It just hit me like a tsunami. And not quiet crying, but ugly crying—sobbing, snot, keening—everything. It just hit me—the whole sordid mess, and I was destroyed.

Waits leaned in. “Is there someone we can call for you? Someone who can come stay with you?”

“Yes,” I said between sobs, “Except she’s dead.” More sobs. I was falling apart in real time.

The detectives waited patiently while I cried my heart out. Detective Ito got me a glass of water. Detective Waits watched me with a gentle look on her face while passing me handfuls of tissues.

Finally I managed to get control of myself. It took longer than I expected. And I was exhausted. I didn’t want to answer anymore questions. I just wanted to go to bed. Divorce, death, and a breakdown in one evening were taking their toll.

“What do I do next?” I asked. “About Owen’s … body? … remains? “ I looked from Detective Waits to Detective Ito. “Do I have to … identify him?”

They looked at each other. Detective Ito spoke up. “That won’t be necessary. We have his ID. But we will need a DNA sample to verify. His toothbrush or hair brush,” he suggested. “If you could give us his dentist’s information, we can contact them.”

I nodded, got the hair brush and toothbrush. Ito put each in its own evidence bag.

Waits and Ito stood. “I think we have all we need for now. The coroner will contact you when your husband’s body is released. We may be back if we have more questions.” She handed me a card. “Call if you have any questions for us.” She smiled. “Oh, just for the record, does your husband have a life insurance policy?”

I was a bit shocked. Did they think I did it? “Uh,” I stammered. “Just whatever his work has on him. Maybe two years salary? I’m not sure.”

She nodded. “Good night. And we’re sorry for your loss.”

I shut the door after them, leaned my back against it, and shut my eyes.

Fooled them.