Five dinners, portioned and labelled, in somebody else's fridge by six

Every Sunday I cook for the week ahead. Five dinners, portioned, labelled, in the fridge by six in the evening. What I would like is to be doing that for somebody with a job that eats her alive, with her name on the labels instead of mine.

Forty six, the Bronx, I drive a delivery route and I am finished by three most days. Divorced eleven years, one grown daughter who lives a long way south of here and calls on Sundays while I am cooking.

This is service and it is not standing in for anything else. I want to be told what she likes, what she will not touch, and what she wants waiting on a Thursday when the whole week has gone wrong. I want to be corrected when I get it wrong, plainly, with nobody being polite about it, because polite is how the last four years of my marriage went and I could not tell you a single true thing I learned in them.

I did this inside one arrangement, four years, ending when she moved to be near her family and neither of us wanted to try it at that distance. She still messages me about a soup I used to make.

No money in either direction. I would not take it and I would not ask. Not looking for anything sexual as a condition, though I am not closed to a relationship growing in its own time. Not looking for a woman who wants a caterer. Not looking for something that only lasts until work gets easier, since being useful when it is hardest is the entire point.