As I pull the cheesecake from the oven, the warm scent of vanilla and cinnamon fills the kitchen. I know this recipe by heart, yet my hands still tremble as I check it once more. It has to be perfect this time.
“The guests are waiting, Andrei!” His voice carries from the living room—impatient, expectant.
I carefully slice the cheesecake, placing fresh raspberries on top with precise care. His words from our last family dinner still echo in my mind. “Clumsy as always. You can’t even cut a cake properly.”
Taking a deep breath, I step into the living room, where his parents, sister, and her husband sit around the table. They greet me with polite smiles, though his mother’s gaze is critical, assessing.
“Ah, here comes our little chef!” Andrei says with a sharp grin. “Let’s hope she hasn’t served up another disaster.”
I place the plates down, keeping my expression neutral. Andrei takes the first bite. The moment stretches unbearably as he chews, then frowns.
“Hmm.” He makes a show of swallowing. “This? You call this cheesecake? Bone dry! I’ve told you a hundred times—never go above 160 degrees. It’s not that complicated.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he waves a dismissive hand.
“Honestly, how difficult is it to follow a recipe? Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve married someone who actually knows how to cook.”
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