“You can help by making something fresh, Matilda,” Raymond said, walking away. “I’ll be in my study.”

***

That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling fan in the guest room. The image of Mom on her knees kept playing on repeat. I thought about calling the police, but what would I say? My stepdad broke a dish? Made my mother cry?

No. This required something else entirely.

I found Mom in the kitchen at dawn, already mixing pancake batter.

“Let me cook today,” I said, taking the bowl from her hands.

She looked relieved. “Are you sure, honey? Raymond likes his breakfast at seven sharp.”

“I’m positive. You should rest… your cold sounds worse.”

She hesitated before nodding. “He likes his eggs over medium. Not too runny, not too firm.”

“Got it. Why don’t you go back to bed for a bit?”

After she left, I pulled out every cookbook in her cabinet and got to work.

Raymond came down at exactly seven, newspaper tucked under his arm. He raised an eyebrow at the spread I laid out—golden pancakes, perfectly cooked eggs, crisp bacon, fresh fruit, and steaming coffee.

“Well, look at this!” he said, taking his seat. “Colleen could learn a thing or two from you.”

I forced a smile. “Mom’s not feeling well. I thought I’d help out while I’m here.”

He took a bite of the pancake and nodded approvingly. “Now this is how a man should be treated in his own home.”

I bit my tongue so hard I winced through the copper tang.

“I’ll handle the meals while I’m visiting. Mom needs to rest.”

“Best idea I’ve heard all week.” He pointed his fork at me. “Your generation could use more women like you… ones who understand the kind of fresh food men really need.”

I watched him eat, planning my next move.

For the next four days, I became a one-woman restaurant. Eggs Benedict for breakfast, hand-rolled sushi for lunch, and Beef Wellington for dinner. I made every meal from scratch, plated it like artwork, and served it with a smile that made my face ache.

“This is incredible,” Raymond kept saying. “I should have you visit more often.”

By day three, he took photos of every dish and sent them to his friends on Instagram. “This is what real home cooking looks like, man! 🥩🍗🥘😋” he bragged.

Mom watched it all with knowing eyes, saying little but squeezing my hand when Raymond wasn’t looking.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered on day four.

“Trust me, Mom. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

That night, I prepared his favorite meal—herb-crusted lamb with rosemary potatoes and glazed carrots. The table was set with candles and Mom’s best china.

“To good food and family,” Raymond toasted, raising his wine glass.

I clinked mine against his. “And to appreciating what we have!”

He was halfway through his meal when I said, “You know, it’s interesting how our taste buds work.”

“How’s that?” he asked, mouth full of lamb.

“Well, for instance, you’ve been eating variations of the same three meals all week, but because I presented them differently, you never noticed.”

His fork froze midway to his mouth. “What are you talking about?”

“That lamb? It’s the same one I made two days ago. I just cut it differently and added a new sauce.”

His face flushed. “No, it isn’t.”

“The potatoes are leftovers from yesterday. The carrots? Those are from the beef dish on Monday. I’ve been recycling ingredients all week, and you’ve been praising every bite.”

Raymond pushed his plate away. “That’s disgusting.”

“Is it? Because five minutes ago, it was ‘the best meal you’ve ever had.’ You even posted it online.”

Mom had appeared in the doorway, watching silently.

“You served me… leftovers??”