“Will you wait a minute?”
The clinking silverware and overlapping discussions in the restaurant nearly drowned out my voice.
            The waitress, a young woman in a crisp uniform, wore a practiced smile. I looked up and looked into her eyes, and I saw a glimmer of impatience before she covered it up with professionalism.
            I lowered my head, staring at the menu. The words blurred, shifting before my eyes. My fingers traced over the glossy surface, as if searching for something. Why was I hesitating when it was only dinner? Why couldn’t I place my usual order?
The images on the menu were vibrant, showcasing an array of tempting dishes: steak, pasta, seafood platter… My eyes lingered on the steak. It reminded me of our wedding anniversary. “This is our shared taste,” he added, grinning, after placing an order for two medium-rare steaks. We still thought we were meant to be together back then.
            I stared at the pictures, trying to summon their flavors. But these weren’t my choices. They were curated by the restaurant to entice customers—standardized, impersonal. Like the meals we had shared, like the memories that once felt special but now belonged to the past.
            “Ma’am? Have you decided?”
            I looked up again. The waitress’s eyes held the distant politeness of someone just doing their job.
            I wanted to ask her: after twenty years of marriage, what does one order for their first meal alone?
            He was gone. For a younger woman. A woman with smooth skin, a slender body, untouched by time. No signs of aging, no “lifesaver” belly. I was here, alone at this table, facing this meal, facing the weight of solitude.
            But how pathetic that sounded. I could control my self-pity. Why should his choices still have power over me? Why should I let them define my life? Was I destined to wallow in sorrow, like some forsaken woman? No.
            I was the one who asked for the divorce. I was the one who ended this toxic relationship. I chose to walk away. Divorce was not my failure—it was my first step toward reclaiming myself.
            I looked down at the menu once more.
            “I’ll have the chef’s special.”
            The waitress nodded and walked away. As I watched her leave, a surprising lightness filled me.
            It was the perfect choice.
            The chef’s special—an unknown dish, a symbol of an uncertain future. It might surprise me, or it might challenge me. But it would be my own choice.
I no longer needed to follow someone else’s menu. I no longer needed to live by someone else’s expectations.
            This time, I was ordering for myself.

Huina Zheng’s stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.