LEARN HOW TO COOK AT LEAST

James’s POV

Evening 6:00pm

That evening, Vanessa and I drove back to the hospital together.

She insisted on preparing homemade meals for my mother and for Jenny. She said hospital food lacked nutrition and warmth, and that both of them needed something cooked with care. I thought it was incredibly kind of her. Vanessa had always been like that. Gentle, calm, considerate. And yet, sometimes she could be fiery, bold, unapologetic. That contrast was what drew me to her in the first place. That was what I loved about her.

She sat beside me in the car, the faint scent of spices still clinging to her clothes. I glanced at her briefly and smiled to myself. Not many women would go through the trouble she had gone through today. She had cut vegetables with a wounded hand, refusing to stop even when the knife nicked her skin. She said it was nothing. That she had endured worse. I remembered how she had laughed it off, wrapping her finger quickly before continuing.

We arrived at the hospital and went straight to my mother’s ward.

When my mother tasted the soup, she did so reluctantly at first. She never liked trying new things. I watched her closely, my heart slightly tense. Then her expression changed. Her face softened, and her eyes brightened just a little.

“It’s her favorite,” I told Vanessa quickly, unable to hide my excitement.

Vanessa’s lips curved into a smile immediately. A genuine one. I knew she was going to love it. I also knew she was going to love Vanessa. She always had. Before Vanessa left the country years ago, my mother had adored her. Cherished her. Treated her like a daughter.

We spent some time with my mother, talking quietly. She looked weaker than usual, but seeing Vanessa seemed to lift her spirits. Then Vanessa spoke again, her voice gentle but firm.

“James, remember, we haven’t given Jenny yet,” she said. “She must be hungry by now. She needs nutrition.”

I smiled without thinking and reached out, patting her head affectionately. She was thoughtful. Always thinking of others, even those who treated her poorly.

My mother held Vanessa’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “Thank you so much, dear,” she said.

Vanessa smiled shyly, and my chest felt warm.

When we left my mother’s ward and headed toward Jenny’s, my mood shifted slightly. I remembered the conversation from earlier that day. The word divorce echoed unpleasantly in my mind. I scoffed internally.

Not on my watch.

When we entered Jenny’s ward, her back was turned to us. She was facing the window, lying stiffly on the bed. Something about her posture unsettled me. She looked… empty. Detached.

I wondered why she looked so gloomy. But then again, she had always been emotional. Overthinking things. Making mountains out of molehills.

Vanessa stepped forward first. “Hey, Jenny,” she called softly.

I watched as Jenny’s body stiffened almost immediately. I knew she was awake. She always reacted like that whenever Vanessa was around.

“Jenny,” I called as well.

She sat up slowly and turned to face us. Her eyes were motionless. Blank. For a brief moment, goosebumps ran down my arms. There was something unsettling about the way she looked at us, as if she was seeing strangers.

I cleared my throat.

“Take this soup,” I said, holding out the flask. “Vanessa prepared it for you.”

She stared at us without moving.

“Look, I know you’re angry and everything,” I continued, irritation creeping into my voice, “but you can’t blame her. She had a head injury and still went out of her way to cook for you.”

Before I could say anything else, Jenny reached out and took the spoon from Vanessa. She opened it, brought it to her lips, and took one sip.

Then she poured it out.

She coughed, setting the flask aside. “Vanessa,” she said calmly, “I know you don’t have good intentions, but at least learn how to cook.”

“What?” The word slipped out of me before I could stop it.

Vanessa’s face changed instantly. Her eyes shimmered, as if tears were threatening to fall. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “If it’s not to your liking. I’m so sorry. I tried my best.”

Something snapped inside me.

I remembered her wounded hand. The knife. The blood. The way she refused to stop cooking despite the pain. I clenched my jaw and stared at Jenny, anger burning in my chest. When had she become so ungrateful? So cruel?

“Finish the soup,” I said sharply.

Jenny turned her gaze to me. “Then you should taste it.”

Without saying much, I took the flask and gulped a mouthful.

I nearly choked.

It was overloaded with pepper and slightly oversalted. My throat burned, and my eyes watered. But when I lifted my gaze and saw Vanessa watching me anxiously, waiting for my reaction, I swallowed hard.

“What’s so bad about the soup?” I said instead. “If you can’t drink it, then forget about it.”

I grabbed Vanessa’s hand and dragged her out of the room.

Behind us, Jenny’s voice rang out, sharp and cold. “James, listen to me.”

I turned back reluctantly.

“I told you earlier,” she said, staring straight at me, “I want a divorce.”

Anger surged through me instantly.

I stepped forward, my voice low and dangerous. “If that’s what you want, you’re not getting it. Get that into your mind. We are not getting divorced.”

I turned away and dragged Vanessa out with me.

I should have been happy. I had Vanessa by my side. I had my mother recovering. Everything should have felt right. But it didn’t.

The mention of divorce made my blood boil.

As I pulled Vanessa along the hallway, she suddenly cried out. “Ouch, ouch, James, you’re hurting me.”

I stopped immediately.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, releasing her hand. “I didn’t mean to.”

She looked up at me hesitantly. “Does Jenny want a divorce?”

I rubbed my forehead and nodded reluctantly. “Yes.”

Her eyes filled with tears almost instantly. “Is it because of me?” she asked softly.

She held my hands, her grip trembling. I cupped her face gently, forcing her to look at me.

“No,” I said firmly. “No, it’s not because of you. It’s not because of you at all.”

She searched my eyes, uncertain.

“She’s just going through problems because of the child,” I continued. “That’s why she said something like that. She doesn’t mean it. She loves me.”

I nodded, more to convince myself than her. “Give her a few weeks. She’ll regret ever asking for a divorce.”

Vanessa sniffed, nodding slowly.

I believed my words. Or at least, I wanted to believe them.

Because the thought of losing control, of things slipping beyond my grasp, terrified me more than I was willing to admit.