Chapter 14 - THE FIRST TIME I COOKED IN THE KITCHEN AGAIN
For months after the skillet incident, I avoided cooking.
Ridiculous.
My kitchen.
My stove.
My pans.
Yet every time oil popped, my body tightened.
So I ordered food.
Ate salads.
Microwaved soup.
Then one Saturday my mother came from Wisconsin.
She opened my refrigerator.
“This is depressing.”
“Thank you.”
“You have mustard, champagne, and three lemons.”
“Balanced diet.”
She pulled out her phone.
“We’re going shopping.”
We bought too much.
Chicken.
Vegetables.
Bread.
Pasta.
Tomatoes.
Then she found my large skillet in the bottom cabinet.
She froze.
I knew what she was thinking.
“Use it.”
“Evelyn.”
“It’s a pan.”
“We can use another.”
“No.”
That sounded more dramatic than I intended.
So we used it.
My mother made sauce.
I chopped garlic.
At one point she handed me the skillet.
My hands tightened.
Then loosened.
Nothing happened.
It was metal.
Gabriel had turned it into a weapon for one evening.
That did not mean he owned its meaning forever.
We ate at the kitchen island.
No Patricia.
No Gabriel.
No deed.
Mom asked:
“Are you staying here?”
“In the condo?”
“Yes.”
“Why wouldn't I?”
“Memories.”
I looked around.
“I had four years here before Gabriel.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
Selling would have been easy financially.
Prices were strong.
But I did not want to move because someone else polluted a room.
I stayed.
Changed the dining chairs.
Not because of trauma.
Because I had always hated them and Gabriel loved them.
That felt better.
I also changed the locks after the divorce was final.
Properly.
Building records updated.
Gabriel’s access ended.
No dramatic key return.
May you like
Just administration.
Sometimes freedom is a form submitted to management.
