The raindrops tapped softly against the windowpane. I stood in the kitchen, the chef’s knife in my hand falling in a steady rhythm on the cutting board, slicing a bright green cucumber into perfectly even strips. The low hum of the range hood couldn’t quite drown out the laughter from the living room.
I glanced up, and through the glass door I saw my son, Robert, with his arm around his wife, Nicole, lounging on the sofa watching television. My eight-year-old grandson, Leo, sprawled on the rug, wrapped in the blue glow of his tablet. The screenlight flickered across their faces—a little portrait of domestic bliss—while I felt like an invisible person on the other side of the glass.
“Mom, is dinner ready yet? Leo’s starving,” Nicole called, impatience cutting through her voice. “Almost.
I just have to sauté the green beans and we’ll be ready,” I answered, wiping my hands on my apron and turning to light the stove. As the oil heated, I tossed in a handful of minced garlic. It hit the pan with a sharp sizzle, filling the air with fragrance.
My lower back ached with a dull, unending throb. I had been on my feet since morning: cleaning the whole house, going out for groceries, then returning to cook without a moment’s rest. For the past ten years, my days had followed this same relentless cycle.
I was sixty-eight now. My body was not what it used to be. “Grandma, I want chicken nuggets.” Leo burst into the kitchen without looking up from his tablet.
“Grandma bought fresh fish today. I made that baked cod you love,” I said gently. “I don’t want fish.
I want nuggets,” Leo pouted, fingers swiping across the screen. Nicole stepped in at the sound of his voice, brow furrowed. “Mom, if the kid wants chicken nuggets, why don’t you just make them?
Why do you always have to do things your way?”
I opened my mouth to explain that the chicken at the supermarket hadn’t looked fresh, and besides, it was too late to start now. In the end, I just nodded. “Okay.
I’ll make them tomorrow.”
Dinner finally reached the table—four dishes and a soup, all steaming. I served everyone rice and sat down last. “This is way too salty,” Nicole said after one bite of green beans, her frown deepening.
“I’ll be more careful next time,” I said, though last week she had complained my cooking was too bland. I had added an extra pinch of salt precisely for her. Robert ate in silence, offering no comment.
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