Tessa squeaked. "What are you doing here?!"
"We were in the area," Mom said brightly.
"You live six hours away," I deadpanned.
"Well," Mom said, brushing her hair behind her ear, "traffic was surprisingly light!"
Aunt Liv stepped inside like she owned the place, her gaze scanning the living room, kitchen, and dining table in one slow, terrifying sweep.
"It's… modern," she said, eyebrows raised.
"That means she hates it," Tessa muttered under her breath.
I elbowed her.
Mom beamed. "We thought we'd join you for dinner! We brought dessert!"
And then Aunt Liv added the words that nearly sent my soul sprinting out of my body:
"So. Tell us everything. How's work? Do you cook for a nice family?"
I mentally died.
I literally died.
Because no—no, no, NO—my traditional mother CANNOT know that her daughter is:
Not working for a family. Not working for a couple. Not even working for a sweet old lady who needs meal prep.
No.
I cook every day in the home of a bachelor man.
