The bag was warm in my hands, the paper already soft with grease. I had ordered two Egg McMuffins, the familiar comfort of toasted English muffins, crisp edges, and the balance of egg and cheese that always felt like a small promise kept.
When I opened the bag, the smell was heavier, butterier. I peeled back the wrapper and saw two biscuits instead—dense, crumbly, not at all what I thought I’d signed up for.
“Biscuits?” I muttered, half to myself, half to the empty kitchen.
Paul sat across from me, his coffee steaming in a chipped mug. He always drank it black, no sugar, no cream, as if sweetness was a weakness. He raised his eyebrows but didn’t look up from the paper. “What’s the difference? Egg’s the same, cheese’s the same. You’re too picky.”
I stared at the biscuit in my hand. “It’s not the same. I wanted the muffin. That’s the point.”
He folded the paper with a snap, took a slow sip, and set the mug down with that deliberate clink he used to punctuate his sentences. “You’ll eat it anyway.”
And I did, but not without noticing the mismatch. My marriage to Paul had been much the same. I thought I was getting prime rib: rich, tender, the kind of meal you savor slowly, with gratitude. What I got was pork chops—serviceable, edible, but never what I imagined.
The truth is, I knew it was a possibility. Ordering from McDonald’s, you accept the risk of biscuits instead of muffins. In marriage, too, I accepted the risk—believing the menu promised more than it could deliver.
I stepped outside with the wrong breakfast cooling in its wrapper, the December air sharp against my face. The sky was pale, the kind of winter light that makes everything look unfinished. Cars hissed past on wet pavement, and somewhere a church bell marked the hour. I stood there, biscuit in hand, realizing how often I had chosen to swallow mismatches, and how much lighter it felt to finally laugh.
In the end, I am better off. I am free to enjoy retirement, free to savor mornings without compromise, free to choose my own menu. That is the miracle of divorce.
© Jaime Pearson 2025. All rights reserved.
Please do not copy, reproduce, or share without permission.
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