Chapter 1

On my son Claude’s birthday, I spent six long hours in the kitchen. I made his favorite meal: perfectly seared steaks and rich, cheesy baked lobster.

When Claude and his wife, Fiona, finally came home from work, they didn’t even look at the table.

"Mom, I’ve told you a hundred times. We’re on a strict fitness routine. We don’t eat this greasy junk," Claude said, glancing away.

Fiona pinched her nose, her brow furrowing in disgust. "And seriously, Mom, could you turn on the range hood? The smell of grease is suffocating."

With that, they both walked past me and retreated to their respective rooms.

Half an hour later, they emerged in matching workout gear. In their hands, they held plastic takeout containers of plain garden salad.

To make this birthday dinner perfect, I had driven to the fresh market at six in the morning. I wanted to grab the freshest organic ribeyes and lobsters before anyone else.

I had labored all morning, filling the table with dishes Claude had loved since he was a little boy.

The steak sauce had simmered on low heat for hours. I had personally deveined every single lobster with a toothpick.

And all I got in return were those two cold sentences.

Claude and Fiona sat across from me. They poked at their bitter, raw lettuce leaves with their forks, their faces expressionless.

My carefully prepared feast sat at the other end of the table, slowly turning cold.

"Claude, if you won’t eat the steak, at least have some soup?"

"I simmered this tomato beef broth for four hours. I made it just for you."

Attempting to break the ice, I gently pushed the soup bowl toward him.

Claude didn’t even look up. He chewed his lettuce and mumbled, "Mom, I told you, I’m trying to build lean muscle. I have to count my macros and avoid oil and sodium. This soup of yours is basically pure fat."

Fiona set her fork down. She elegantly dabbed her lips with a napkin before speaking.

"Mom, I know you mean well. But our lifestyle is different from yours."

"We care about wellness and the quality of life, not just stuffing our faces to feel full."

"The food you cook is a calorie bomb. It’s incredibly unhealthy. We simply cannot eat it."

She paused, looking at me with a condescending pity that made my skin crawl.

"Honestly, Mom, you should stop cooking for us altogether. We don’t even like your food."

"Just take care of yourself. It’s called having boundaries. You understand, right? It’s better for everyone."

Boundaries. Another one of those trendy buzzwords they loved to throw around.

Just like "generational trauma," "personal growth," and "emotional value."

All I knew was that before Claude married Fiona, he loved my cooking. He used to finish an entire plate of steak by himself.

Now, he sat across from me and told me my food was toxic.

I stopped talking. Silently, I picked up my fork and put a piece of the cold, stiff steak into my mouth.

It tasted heavy and bitter in my chest.

Once they finished their salads, Claude and Fiona tossed their plastic containers into the trash and locked themselves in their bedroom.

I was left alone at the dining table. The custom birthday cake I ordered sat there, its box unopened.

With a heavy sigh, I stood up and started clearing the table.

There was too much food left. It felt wrong to throw it away.

So, I packed everything into Tupperware containers and stuffed them into the fridge.

The massive fridge was instantly packed to the brim, mirroring the suffocating weight in my heart.