Then Kier turned to me, already irritated. “Well? What are you doing just standing there? Go prepare food for your sister. She just brought us gifts, the least you could do is cook.”
Camille walked toward me with another box.
“Sis, I got something for you too,” she said with a fake smile. “Since I know you love cooking… it’s an apron. With matching kitchen mitts and measuring cups. Cute, right? You can wear it now while making dinner.”
I stared at it, lips tightening. I forced a small nod.
“Thanks.”
“Say it properly,” my father barked. “Where are your manners?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Thank you, Camille.”
“See?” David grunted. “Stop babying her, Camille. She should be grateful. Let her show it through actions. Go, cook for us.”
So I cooked.
I cut. I chopped. I stirred and fried and cleaned, bleeding and aching all the while. I did it like I always did—without complaint, without recognition.
But when I called them to the table, I was met with silence.
Kier was the first to speak. “Actually, don’t bother. We’re heading out.”
“What?”
“Camille closed a major deal. We’re going to celebrate at Florentina’s. You know, that new luxury place near the harbor.”
Camille laughed. “You’ll love it, Kier. I booked the private balcony. It’s stunning.”
Then she turned to me, suddenly remembering. “Come with us, sis?”
But before I could answer, Kier scoffed. “No need. Erika doesn’t even understand what the deal was about. She’ll be out of place. Doesn’t even have clothes for a place like that.”
“She can borrow mine—” Camille offered half-heartedly.
Kier waved her off. “She’s staying. She’s behind on the laundry anyway.”
And like that, they all agreed. Camille smiled, my father chuckled, and my husband kissed Camille’s hand like it was nothing.
And I—once again—was left standing in a kitchen filled with steam, silence, and the scent of food no one would eat.
That night, after washing every plate, folding napkins, and mopping the floor, I sank onto the couch.
I opened my phone to escape—to scroll, to feel something other than this ache.
That’s when I saw it.
A new post. From my son.
Joseph.
I clicked.
There they were.
In Florentina’s.
Laughing. Drinking. Eating. Clinking wine glasses. My son. My husband. My father. Camille. Smiling like they were a perfect family.
Without me.
I stared at the screen, my hands trembling.