I lost myself in the process, each step deliberate and purposeful.
The dinner wasn’t just a meal; it was a statement, a silent protest against the expectations that weighed me down.
With every dish I prepared, I felt a small sense of victory.
The kitchen was warm, the heat from the stove a contrast to the cold that clung to the windows.
I could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating.
He sat in the living room, oblivious to the effort and care I poured into each dish.
I wondered if he would notice the difference, if he would see the message I was trying to convey.
But deep down, I knew the answer.
For him, it was always about appearances, the facade of a perfect life.
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