A Birthday, a Casserole, and a Comment I Can’t Forget.
During birthday prep, I finished my late mom’s cherished casserole—full of childhood memories. My daughter-in-law walked in, laughed: “Do people still cook this?”
I smiled, but it stung. That dish was my history, dismissed in one remark.
A week later, she offered to cook for guests. I replied, “Sure. Let’s see if your food speaks louder than your words.”
Her plates looked magazine-perfect, but flavors fell flat. Guests nibbled, then sheepishly asked for *my* casserole: “No one makes it like you!” “We missed it!”
No apology. She just cleared plates silently.
Then, revenge: Taking out recycling, I found *my* handwritten recipe book—grease-stained, with Mom’s notes, kids’ scribbles, holiday smudges—in the bin.
Heart pounding, I asked why. She didn’t flinch: “I did the right thing. I won’t bear someone making me uncomfortable in front of guests.”
No shame. She’d mocked my meals, then tried to erase them.
That book wasn’t just recipes—it was my lifetime. She could’ve asked to learn; I’d have shared everything.
Now, how do I rebuild trust with someone who destroys what I’ve created—and calls it self-protection?
