Believe

"You cooked this yourself?" Theodore inquired, his voice laced with scepticism. Deep down, he wanted to believe that it was simply impossible for her to cook something this good. It seemed too coincidental that she had managed to create the most perfect spaghetti he had ever tasted, rivalling the dishes he enjoyed in five-star hotels.

He struggled to trust his own taste buds. It wasn't easy for anyone to replicate his mother's cooking, and even if Irene had somehow accomplished it, he found it hard to believe. He searched for a reason to deny the fact that this dish actually tasted good.

"Yes, I did," Irene responded, her face displaying confusion. What did he mean by asking if she had cooked it? Wasn't he present in the kitchen when she was in the middle of preparing it? His question seemed to contradict his own observation.

Moreover, it was only the two of them in the house. Who else could have helped her cook? The accusation seemed nonsensical, especially since he hadn't lifted a