For twenty-five years, Doris defined love through food. Her kitchen was her sanctuary — a place of warmth, comfort, and care. Every simmering pot of stew, every freshly baked loaf, every neatly packed container in the fridge was her way of saying I love you without words. But when her meals started disappearing, piece by piece, from the refrigerator, that love turned into confusion — and eventually heartbreak.
Doris had spent most of her adult life caring for others. Between long shifts at the hospital and raising two kids, Ellie and Jonah, her days were exhausting but full. Even after the children moved out, cooking remained her rhythm. “Love, sweetie,” she’d always say, “it’s all about love.” That was how she justified waking up early to cook before work or spending Sundays preparing meals for the week ahead.
Then, one ordinary week, she noticed something off. Meals that were supposed to last days were gone overnight. The fridge, usually full and neatly arranged, looked raided. Leftovers vanished. Containers were left dirty in the sink. It wasn’t a one-time thing — it kept happening.
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