She could neither cook nor bake, but her husband had been fine with it. They could afford domestic help, and he was a chef par excellence.
She felt compelled to cheat in her eighties now. She ordered stuff from the nearby bakery, and messed up the kitchen to show she had been working. She longed to hear the words, “Gran, you cook so well. We’ll come again.”
Her son’s conspiratorial silence and derisive glances from the DIL did not matter. She needed approval from the lights of her life. She saw her confidence giving way to a need for love.