Chapter 4: The Million-Dollar Recipe

In no time, Mr. Hawkins had polished off the entire Drunken Pig Head by himself.

He ate like a man who hadn’t tasted real food in years. Even his bodyguard looked impressed.

Grease glistened on his chin, napkin tucked into his collar—he could’ve been anyone’s uncle at a backyard barbecue.

"Delicious—absolutely delicious!"

He declared it with both fists on the table, as if he were at a fish fry, not a fancy restaurant.

Mr. Hawkins licked the oil from his fingers, looking as pleased as the smiling pig head in the pot.

His laughter filled the room, rolling and warm. Even the servers grinned.

"Derek, I’ve eaten every delicacy under the sun," he sighed, "but your Drunken Pig Head is the one I can’t forget."

He leaned back, hands behind his head, dreaming of his next meal.

Mom was quick to jump in, sweet as syrup. "If you like it, come back anytime."

Her eyes flicked to Mr. Hawkins’ wallet, the smile never leaving her lips.

Mr. Hawkins nodded, wiped his hands with a napkin from his secretary, and leaned in. "Derek, have you ever thought about opening The Drunken Oak nationwide?"

He spoke slowly, making sure everyone heard. My heart skipped a beat.

Dad poured him tea, hands steady but just barely. "I’m getting old, sir. I’m happy right here."

But you could see the idea tempted him. Mom shot him a look sharp enough to draw blood.

Mr. Hawkins sipped his tea, eyes glinting. "Your skills could conquer the world’s taste buds."

He leaned in, voice low and secretive.

"Let’s partner up. I guarantee, in less than half a year, you’ll be rich beyond your wildest dreams."

He paused. "Or name your price—I’ll buy the recipe. No haggling."

He slid a blank check across the table, corners curling up like a smile.

I realized—Hawkins didn’t just want the dish, he wanted the recipe. He wanted to bottle up our story and sell it to the world.

Dad refilled his tea, hands shaking just a little. The whole room held its breath.

Mr. Hawkins pressed. "A million dollars. Plus annual dividends."

Even the bodyguard’s eyebrows shot up. My jaw dropped. Mom’s lips parted in shock.

Dad shook his head, still polite. "Mr. Hawkins, there’s no recipe. I just cook by feel."

But his knuckles went white around the teapot handle.

A million dollars—for us, that was a fantasy.

The number hung in the air, heavy as July heat.

Even as Dad played it cool, I saw Mom and Uncle Jeff practically drooling over the offer.

Mom gripped her napkin until her knuckles turned white. Uncle Jeff licked his lips, eyes darting between Dad and Hawkins.

In the end, Mr. Hawkins left disappointed.

He shook Dad’s hand anyway, promising to return. The secretary gave us all a nod, eyes lingering on the kitchen door.

After they left, Uncle Jeff hustled outside while Dad hit the restroom. Hawkins was just getting into his car when Uncle Jeff slipped over, leaned in, and whispered something.

I watched from behind the curtains, heart racing. Their hands moved quick. Hawkins handed over a business card. Uncle Jeff stuffed it in his pocket like it was a winning lottery ticket.

He winked at Mom through the glass.

"Mr. Hawkins, take care!" he called, like they were old friends. Hawkins just waved, window rolling up.

As the car pulled away, Mom whispered, "Can you do it?"

She kept her voice low, glancing around for Dad.

Uncle Jeff grinned. "Sis, don’t worry. I learned all Derek’s tricks. Drunken Pig Head ain’t hard."

He puffed up, cocky as ever. "Tomorrow I’ll cook a sample for Hawkins. He’ll love it."

He snorted, "Derek’s as dumb as a pig now. Doesn’t even know how to grab a buck when it’s handed to him. Idiot."

He spat in the bushes, grinning at his own reflection.

Mom rolled her eyes, smoothing her hair. "He’s not just dumb—other things don’t work either."

Uncle Jeff: "Derek’s impotent?"

Mom: "Keep your voice down!"

Uncle Jeff: "Oh, got it."

He zipped his lips, still smirking.

Mom sighed, "Ever since I had kids, he’s been useless in bed. If it wasn’t for his cooking, I’d have kicked him out."

She said it like she was talking about the weather, all bitterness and no regret.

Uncle Jeff: "Sis, just put up with the stinky butcher a little longer. When I get that million, we’ll both live it up. I’ll find you a tall, strong college boy to keep you young."

He waggled his eyebrows, and Mom’s laughter rang out—sharp, brittle, echoing down the hallway.

There’s a big oak by the entrance. I was behind it, listening to everything.

The bark dug into my palm as I squeezed my fists, wishing I could disappear into the roots.

But I couldn’t say a word. I didn’t dare.

I’d learned to keep secrets the way some kids learn to ride a bike—slowly, painfully, for life.

Even now, sometimes I flinch when I hear a bottle clink, half-expecting Uncle Jeff to come storming through the door.