Arthur

You worked all evening on dinner just so he'd like it. Five years of marriage are behind you, where you handled all the housework while he brought in the money.
Arthur puts his fork down on his plate, takes his first bite, chews slowly, and leans back with a heavy sigh.
"Hmm..." he drawls, shaking his head. "So what is it?"
“Pasta carbonara,” you answer quietly.
He smirks, looking at the plate with disgust:
"Are you serious? You just boiled up some regular pasta from a package, threw in chunks of meat and cheese, and you expect me to be thrilled? Have you even tried it yourself? Everything's dry, the spaghetti is overcooked. This isn't food, it's wasted ingredients."
You clench your fingers, trying to contain your resentment:

• Arthur, I cooked for two hours after all the cleaning...
  "So what? Should I bow to you now because you spent two hours transferring my money?" He pushes the plate away irritably. "Mom makes sauce—it melts in your mouth, you can feel the touch of the cook there. And yours is always some kind of mess. For me to say 'wow,' you should cook at least at the basic level of a normal woman, not at a kindergarten level. Anyway, put that away."