PART 1
“Tomorrow I want sixty dishes, one for each year I am turning, and you are going to cook every single one by yourself,” Evelyn said, adjusting her pearl necklace as she took a slow sip of her Earl Grey tea.
She was sitting comfortably on the plush leather sofa in my living room in Oak Park, her legs crossed at the ankles while she treated my home like her personal salon.
Next to her, my husband, Thomas, was scrolling through social media on his smartphone and did not even bother to look up.
My name is Charlotte, I am thirty-four years old, and for five painful years, I mistook quiet submission for genuine love.
“Did you say sixty dishes?” I asked, staring at her in disbelief as I tried to process her outrageous demand. “We have more than twenty guests arriving tomorrow evening, so I can prepare a smoked brisket, roasted chicken, pasta, sides, and desserts, but sixty completely separate dishes is humanly impossible.”
