Chapter 2: The Table Turns

She sneered, “Just call it a little shop. Why dress it up as a ‘grocery store’ to make your family look fancy?”

She said it like my parents were selling fake designer bags out of the trunk of a rusted car. I forced a smile, determined to let her think she’d scored a point.

I smiled, not bothering to argue.

Pick your battles. That’s what Dad always said. I let it go, letting her believe whatever she wanted.

If my family’s businesses were just ‘little shops,’ then there probably aren’t many places in the state that could really call themselves supermarkets. Not bad for a couple of so-called little shops, I thought, my pride simmering quietly.

I remembered Dad showing me the big map in his office, the smell of his morning coffee filling the air, his laugh booming as he pointed out every red dot. “That’s a lot of hard work, kiddo.” For a moment, I let that warmth carry me.

While I was still half-smiling at the memory, Kyle’s mother cut in, her voice sharp as a knife, pointing at a small shed off to the side. “All the groceries are in the kitchen. Go cook.”

It was a command, not a request. The shed looked more like a storage closet than any kitchen I’d ever seen. I hesitated, glancing at Kyle, desperate for him to back me up or at least say something.

Seriously? What kind of guest gets put to work before even stepping inside?

My stomach twisted. I’d heard of Southern hospitality, but this was more like Southern boot camp. Back home, my mom would have baked cookies for any guest, not handed them a spatula and a list of chores.

Before I could protest, Kyle just kept giving me that look—half apology, half plea, like he was begging me to play along and keep the peace.

He gave me that pleading look, the one that always made me cave. I felt a surge of frustration, but swallowed it down, reminding myself that sometimes you just suck it up for love.

Thinking about how sweet he’d been these past two years, I swallowed my annoyance and marched to the kitchen, only to find it a disaster zone.

The sink overflowed with greasy dishes, the counter was sticky with old spills, and a mouse darted behind a box of instant potatoes. I wrinkled my nose and rolled up my sleeves, determined not to let them see me sweat.

Just then, Kyle’s mother followed me in, barking orders and bossing me around like a drill sergeant. “Faster! Don’t dawdle!”

She hovered over my shoulder, nitpicking every move. “Don’t cut the carrots that way! Use the big pot! That’s not how we do it here!”

After a whole day on the road, my head was already spinning, but she kept at it: “Why are you just standing there? Get moving!”

Her voice bounced off the cracked tile, each word ratcheting up my headache. I gritted my teeth, counting to ten in my head, fighting the urge to snap.

I took a deep breath and started prepping the food, the knife thudding against the cutting board, the rhythm steadying me.

I chopped onions like I was trying to win a race, the sting in my eyes matching the slow burn in my chest. Back home, family dinners meant laughter and second helpings, not this.

Halfway through, while I was frantically busy, someone barged in and snapped, “Hey, what’s taking so long? I’m starving over here!”

A younger guy—had to be Kyle’s brother—sauntered in like he owned the place, voice dripping with entitlement. He didn’t even glance my way, just flopped onto a rickety chair.

Kyle’s mother rushed over to coddle him. “It’s almost done. Here, have some grapes to tide you over.”

She fussed over him, plucking grapes from a dusty bowl and handing them over like he was a little prince. I bit back a laugh at the absurdity.

I checked out the newcomer: skinny jeans, loafers, the whole wannabe cool-guy act. He looked like he’d spent more time picking out his outfit than helping around the house.

He had slicked-back hair and strutted around with the air of someone who thought he was hot stuff—in a town with more cows than people. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from rolling my eyes.

After he left, Kyle’s mother turned on me. “Didn’t you hear my son say he’s hungry? Move faster!”

She snapped her fingers, eyes flashing. I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood, but I kept going.

I bit my tongue and kept cooking, repeating my internal mantra: Just a few more hours, I told myself. Just a few more hours.

I focused on the rhythm of chopping, stirring, and frying, tuning out her constant criticism. I told myself I’d be out of here soon—just survive the weekend.

When I finally finished, I was about to sit down and enjoy the meal I’d made, but Kyle’s mother yanked me up.