prepared by a child wasn’t safe.
What if someone got food poisoning?
I reminded her Ava wasn’t five. She’d attended cooking classes, developed a complete menu, sanitized everything, and prepared diabetic-friendly options.
Mom interrupted.
That was nice, she said, but it wasn’t real cooking like food from a restaurant.
I hung up before I screamed.
Next, I called my sister.
Not because I expected sympathy, but because I hoped she hadn’t known about the change.
She had.
“Oh, Jenna,” she said, “don’t guilt everyone over this. She’s crying. She’s dramatic.
