Prologue: The Last Recipe I Made for Them
I used to cook to be accepted.
Not just to fill empty plates, but to fill empty spaces between us—between me and them.
I learned early on that food was language in their family. It was the way love was measured and bartered.
A dash of salt meant you cared.
An extra helping meant you belonged.
So I seasoned meals to please their tastes, not mine.
I baked pies with the right crust, roasted vegetables until they were soft enough for their liking, and followed recipes handed down with unspoken rules.
I brought dishes to their gatherings, hoping for a nod of approval, a smile, or even a “not bad.”
But the nods never came. The smiles were rare. The “not bad” was the best I ever got.
I cooked for their approval, for their acceptance, for their love.
But I wasn’t tasting my own food anymore.
One night, standing in their kitchen with a casserole I made from a recipe his aunt dictated, I realized something.
This was no longer about food.
This was about me—shrinking, fading, losing pieces of myself in the name of keeping the peace.
And I couldn’t do it anymore.
So I left.
No note. No explanations. Just a packed bag and a quiet exit.
A promise whispered into the dark of my new apartment:
I will eat to feel. I will cook to heal.
Because this time, the recipes were for me.