Donna had never fully accepted me. From the moment Simon introduced us, it was clear I didn’t fit the image of the daughter-in-law she had imagined. She would often make passive-aggressive comments, disguised as helpful suggestions.

“Simon, darling, don’t you think Natasha should focus more on learning traditional recipes? A wife should be able to cook well for her family,” Donna would say, her voice always dripping with false concern.

Simon would immediately defend me. “Mom, Natasha is a fantastic cook and a wonderful mother. We’re happy with our lives.”

But her words still stung. I didn’t meet her expectations, and though I tried to shrug it off, it hurt. I loved my family and had always prided myself on my cooking, but for some reason, whenever we had guests over, my meals would mysteriously go wrong. Dishes I had perfected countless times would come out too salty, too sweet, or just inedible. I blamed myself, thinking it was nerves or that I was trying too hard to impress our guests.

One evening, after yet another failed dinner, I found myself standing in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot, frustrated. “I don’t get it, Simon,” I muttered when he came to check on me. “I followed the recipes exactly, but everything went wrong again. I feel like I’ve lost my touch.”

He kissed my forehead gently. “You’re an amazing cook, Natasha. It’s just bad luck. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

But something didn’t feel right. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than just bad luck.