I poured myself a glass of water and looked around. The kitchen no longer looked like mine. The gray tiles, the white cabinets—so cold, so impersonal. This kitchen used to be yellow, a soft yellow like Sunday morning light. Robert painted it when we moved in. He said he wanted me to cook in a cheerful place, a place full of light.
Now everything was gray.
The oven timer beeped. I took out the sponge cake and let it cool. I prepared the milk mixture and poured it over the cake. I put it in the refrigerator.
It was four-thirty in the morning. I went to my room, lay down with my clothes still on, and closed my eyes. But I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing, thinking about everything I still had to do—the rice, the beans, the tortillas, the guacamole.
At five, I got up again. I changed my clothes and went back to the kitchen. I started the rice, then the beans. I turned on some quiet music on the radio—old songs I used to listen to with Robert, songs that reminded me of simpler times.
At eight, Dan came down for breakfast.
“Good morning, Mom. You’ve been up for a long time,” he said.
“A little while,” I replied.
He poured himself coffee and sat at the table, looking at everything I had prepared.
“This looks delicious. Chloe is going to be so happy.”
“I hope so,” I said.
“Mom, thanks for doing all this. I know it’s a lot of work.”
I nodded. I waited. I waited for him to say something else, to ask me how I felt. To notice the dark circles under my eyes. To see that I had been cooking for almost fifteen hours.
But he just finished his coffee, got up, and went to take a shower.
Chloe came down around noon, all dressed up, hair down, makeup done.
“Is everything ready?” she asked.
“The guacamole and tortillas are still left, but the rest is done.”
“Perfect. The guests arrive at six. I want everything on the table at six-thirty, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and Eleanor, one more thing.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice, even though no one else was in the kitchen. “When my parents get here, could you not be wandering around the living room? It’s just that I like to greet my guests in peace, without interruptions.”
I just stared at her.
“Without interruptions,” I repeated. As if I were an interruption in my own house.
“Where do you want me to be?” I asked.
“I don’t know. In your room or here in the kitchen. Just come out when I call you to serve the food.”
I didn’t say anything. I just nodded.
Chloe smiled. “Thanks, Eleanor. I knew you’d understand.”
She went back to the living room. I heard her talking on the phone, laughing, excited about her party.
I stayed in the kitchen, making guacamole, mashing avocados, chopping cilantro, squeezing limes.
At five in the afternoon, I started on the tortillas. I made them by hand, one by one—the dough between my fingers, the hot griddle, the smell of corn filling the kitchen. I made forty tortillas. My hands were tired, my fingers aching, but I kept going because everything had to be perfect.
At six, the guests started to arrive. I heard the voices from the kitchen—laughter, greetings, the sound of the door opening and closing. Chloe greeted everyone.
“So glad you came! Come in, come in. This is my house. Welcome.”
My house.
Those two words pierced my chest like needles.
I stayed in the kitchen finishing the last details, putting everything on platters, garnishing the dishes.
At six-thirty, Chloe peeked her head into the kitchen.
“Everything’s ready, right?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect. Start bringing out the food.”
I carried the platters to the table one by one—the enchiladas, the rice, the beans, the salsas, the tortillas. Every time I entered the dining room, the guests looked at me as if I were part of the catering staff. No one said hello. No one asked my name.
Chloe was sitting at the head of the table. My spot. The spot where I always sat. The place from which I watched Dan grow up, where I had shared thousands of meals with Robert.
But now it was hers.
I finished putting all the food on the table and went back to the kitchen. I stood there, looking through the small pass-through window into the dining room, watching them eat, watching them laugh, watching them enjoy the food I had prepared with my own hands.
Dan was sitting next to Chloe. He looked happy—happier than I had seen him in months.
Chloe raised her glass.
“I want to make a toast,” she said.
Everyone quieted down.
“Thank you for coming to celebrate with me. Thank you for sharing this moment in my house, with my family.”
My house. My family.
I no longer existed.
The guests clapped. They clinked their glasses. They kept eating.
I stayed in the kitchen, sitting on a small stool by the sink, staring at the floor. The tears wanted to come, but I held them back. I wasn’t going to cry. I wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction.
Half an hour passed. The plates were almost empty. Chloe came back into the kitchen.
“You can bring out the cake now,” she said.
I took the cake from the refrigerator. It was beautiful, perfect, with the fluffy white meringue. Chloe had bought candles in the shape of a big “3” and “2.” I put them on the cake and lit them.
I carried the cake into the dining room. Everyone started to sing Happy Birthday—the song I used to sing to Dan every year when he was little. But now they were singing it for her.
I set the cake in front of Chloe. She smiled, closed her eyes, made a wish, and blew out the candles. Everyone clapped.
“Cut it, cut it!” someone shouted.
Chloe took the knife and cut the first piece. She tasted it.
“It’s delicious,” she said. “Eleanor, you did an incredible job.”
Everyone turned to look at me as if they were just noticing I was there.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
“Serve everyone, will you?” Chloe told me.