Chapter Thirty

Catherine’s POV

The rush was finally over.

I let out a long breath after the final wave to the officials, watching as the hotel management took over. My shoulders relaxed for the first time all day.

“You did great, Miss Carson,” the principal said as we headed toward the school bus.

She couldn’t hide her smile. Signing a million-dollar investment deal would do that to anyone.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I replied, trying to sound calm.

Even though part of me wanted to pretend my excitement was only about the event, I knew better.

It wasn’t.

I climbed into the bus and filled out the required forms, signing where I needed to before handing them back to her.

“You could’ve done this at school,” she said.

I shook my head. “I won’t be coming back today.”

Her eyebrow lifted slightly.

“We’re having a small dinner at home,” I added quickly. “I need to help my mom prepare.”

She studied me for a second, then nodded.

“Alright. Get some rest.”

I dropped off shortly after, waved goodbye, and headed straight home.

All I wanted was a shower and dress up before they arrived.

My therapist’s words drifted back to me.

Spend time with people you love. Let it remind you that you’re safe.

That was why I’d invited Alice and her brother over for dinner.

Yeah.

Her brother.

A small smile almost slipped out before I forced it away.

Focus, Catherine

“Mom, Dad, I’m home—”

The words died in my throat.

Smoke hit me first.

And then I heard it.

The unmistakable sound of something frying… aggressively.

Mom usually ordered takeout. Cooking wasn’t really her thing. She was always too busy—except today, when she suddenly offered to cook dinner.

The living room smelled like disaster.

“Because something is actually burning,” I muttered.

Two grown babies were home.

Cooking.

Unsupervised.

That should’ve scared me from the start.

I dropped my bag and rushed toward the kitchen.

The moment I reached the kitchen door, I broke into a cough, slapping my hand over my nose.

Smoke was everywhere.

“Three more!” Mom shouted.

Dad stood by the counter in his sunglasses, flipping plantain like he was in a cooking show. “Stir it.”

“Huh? You do it,” Mom snapped, struggling with a tray.

I stared at them.

Am I the only one who can see that this looks poisonous?

Why is the oil blackish?

My stomach churned. My eyes stung.

God.

I watched in horror as Dad marched over, grabbed the tray from Mom, dumped the entire pile of plantain into the oil—and immediately ran to hide behind the counter.

“Bravo, hubby!” Mom cheered, clapping like they’d just invented fire. “We’re cooking!”

Cooking what? A banshee diet?

Dad slowly popped his head back up.

“Okay… let’s wait a few minutes, turn off the gas, and drain the oil.”

Mom ran from the edge of the counter and jumped straight into his arms.

Seriously.

“We did it,” she announced proudly.

The smoke hit me again.

“Mom… Dad…” I croaked, my throat burning, my head spinning.

Nothing.

They didn’t hear me.

Because instead of saving my lungs from this poisonous drama, they had decided to start making out—right there—while the kitchen slowly turned into a disaster zone.

Seriously.

Maybe God finally had mercy on me, because Mom’s eyes landed on me.

“Catherine—God! When did you get back?” she gasped.

She jumped off Dad. And as if nothing was wrong—like I wasn’t squinting through smoke and fighting for my life—she leaned back and hugged him again.

I searched for words.

Words that wouldn’t make it obvious I thought my parents were two giant babies trying to murder me with fried plantain.

“Mom. Dad. What the hell is going on here?”

Her smile faded. She turned to Dad proudly.

“We’re making dinner,” she said. “Like I promised.”

I stared at the black oil.

At the burnt plantain.

At the smoke clouding my future.

Yeah

I could see that.

And if I didn’t intervene fast, this wasn’t dinner.

It was our funeral.

I found some strength and barged in to turn off the cooker.

“Oh, we didn’t notice it was done,” Dad grinned like hadn't just ruined my lungs.

I choked, using the sleeve of my uniform as a shield against the smoke, and flung open the window.

“No wonder the smoke was insane,” Dad said, “we forgot to open the window.”

I froze, hand on the metal, and turned to them. “Seriously, Mom, what kind of dinner-from-hell are you making?”

She smiled. The kind of confident smile that makes you want to scream. “Babydoll, don’t say that. I made spaghetti and some chicken—we were just getting on the plantain when you arrived.”

The confidence. Ugh.

“Why is the oil black?”

She scoffed. “The plantain kept getting burnt.” Then she yelled, “But your mother is no loser, so your dad and I just… topped up the oil and fried it again. And again. And again. But guess what, baby? It got burnt again. So we did it again. And finally—on the tenth trial!” She leaned into Dad. “We got it right.”

I looked at the pan. The monster puffing in the oil… that’s plantain. Somehow. Fried.

“Mom. You kept frying the plantain in the same oil that burned.”

She nodded. Oblivious.

I forced a smile. “Mom… do you even know how to cook?” I asked, my chest still tight from coughing.

She didn’t answer.

“Mom. We have guests coming over. Now is not the time to experiment. Don’t use my visitors as test subjects.” I scowled.

“Honestly… a dog wouldn’t even touch this.”

Her smile faltered, and my chest clenched at how quickly her face dropped.

“Catherine. Watch your words,” Dad said, calm as if we weren’t standing in the middle of a kitchen apocalypse. Really?

I moved over to the pot and lifted the lid. The pasta had fused into one giant, sad, overcooked lump—like a single, mournful brick of bread.

I grabbed a spoon and stabbed at it, giving Dad a pointed look. “Eat it.”