“Simon, I can’t understand it. I followed every recipe to the letter, yet everything turned out wrong. I feel as if I’m losing my knack,” I confessed, disheartened.
He reassured me with a kiss on the forehead. “You’re a fantastic chef, Natasha. Perhaps it’s just a stroke of bad luck. Don’t be too harsh on yourself.”
However, I harbored a nagging suspicion that it was more than mere misfortune.
The revelation struck on the evening of Simon’s birthday. I was preparing my signature pasta dish, the kitchen buzzing with the warm sounds of our friends and family celebrating in the living room. Eva flitted about, ensuring her father’s special day was perfect.
Simon was thoroughly engaged with his colleagues, discussing a recent project, while I found solace in the familiar dance of cooking.
“Mom, do you need help?” Eva peered into the kitchen.
“No, darling, just make sure your father is enjoying himself,” I replied, affectionately tousling her hair.
Mid-preparation, my phone rang—an urgent call from a client. Excusing myself, I stepped out briefly, assuring, “I’ll be right back,” as I shut the kitchen door.
The call was brief, yet when I returned, I noticed the kitchen door slightly ajar. Peering through the gap, I caught Donna meddling with my pasta sauce, sneakily adding something from a small container she promptly hid away.
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