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For twenty-five years, Doris expressed love through cooking — her kitchen was the heart of her home, filled with the scents of stews, bread, and family tradition. Even after her children moved out, she continued to cook, her meals a symbol of devotion. Her husband, Alan, often worked late, but she always kept dinner warm, believing it showed care.
Then things changed. Leftovers vanished, meals disappeared overnight. One evening, Doris came home early and found her sister-in-law, Marian, packing away her food. Marian said Alan allowed it — “just food,” she shrugged. Those words cut deeply; for Doris, cooking was love.
When Alan dismissed her pain, Doris realized it wasn’t about the food, but years of feeling unseen. After sleepless nights, she left quietly to live with her daughter. Now, in her own sunlit apartment, she cooks for joy, not duty — her fridge full of food, freedom, and self-worth.
