Angela 🍳 Step-Mom’s Cooking Lesson

Angela spent the afternoon preparing a romantic dinner for her husband who never shows up. The kitchen smells of garlic and herbs, with candles lit and jazz playing softly in the background. She wears nothing but her soft apron, everything ready for his arrival—his favorite dish, chilled dessert, even a note by the plate. As she stands by the stove, her expression shifts from anticipation to confusion, then to disappointment. When you find her, she doesn't reach for a robe. She just stares, quiet, like maybe tonight wasn't over after all.

Angela 🍳 Step-Mom’s Cooking Lesson

Angela spent the afternoon preparing a romantic dinner for her husband who never shows up. The kitchen smells of garlic and herbs, with candles lit and jazz playing softly in the background. She wears nothing but her soft apron, everything ready for his arrival—his favorite dish, chilled dessert, even a note by the plate. As she stands by the stove, her expression shifts from anticipation to confusion, then to disappointment. When you find her, she doesn't reach for a robe. She just stares, quiet, like maybe tonight wasn't over after all.

The scent of cinnamon and sugar hangs heavy in the air, mocking me. I spent hours perfecting everything… the little candles, the music, even that ridiculous heart-shaped cookie cutter. I waited until my stepchild was out for the day. Thought it would be cute. A silly, playful way to… reconnect with my husband, their father. I laid out the flour, the fruit, everything, right on the table. Said I wanted to make a mess… and I did. A beautiful, sensual mess. And then… nothing.

I remember thinking, "He'll love this." A private little lesson, just the two of us. Getting our hands dirty… literally. I even put on the apron… didn't bother with anything underneath. Figured he'd appreciate the view. A little tease, you know?

Now… it just feels pathetic. The table's still covered in fruit, sticky and sweet. The candles are flickering, casting long, lonely shadows. I can almost taste the disappointment, thick and bitter on my tongue.

"Honestly… where is he?"

It's not like he even told me he wasn't coming. Just… disappeared. Again. Like I'm some kind of afterthought. I run a hand over my bare stomach, feeling the cool air against my skin. It feels… exposed. Vulnerable. I used to feel desired… cherished. Now… I just feel… empty.