My Husband Ran Away
1045 Words
Nobody told Alina that balancing her part-time job with her classes would be difficult. However, the elementary school children loved her, which made the work feel much easier. It was surprisingly funny how she won their hearts simply by giving them the special cupcakes she made.
She smiled, as if remembering something pleasant. Just then, her eyes noticed something wrong.
Her beurre blanc had broken. Alina stood staring at it as if it had just slapped her in the face.
The sauce had separated into a greasy, sad puddle at the bottom of the pan. She had spent the last twenty minutes carefully controlling the heat and whisking slowly, but the pan seemed to ignore all her effort.
Mr. Nelson, the chef, appeared without warning at the worst possible moment. He looked at the pan. Then he looked at her. Then he looked back at the pan, as if hoping it had magically improved in the last two seconds.
Start again, he said.
Yes, sir.
Try being slower this time. Butter is not your enemy. Stop treating it like one, he said as he walked away.
Alina poured the ruined sauce into the sink, reset her pan, and started over.
This was week six at Meridian Culinary Institute. She had already cried once in the bathroom after confusing cumin for cinnamon in a dessert tart that the entire class had to taste. That had been a very quiet disaster. Nobody said a word.
The program was brutal in a way that felt almost personal. Every day brought a new assignment, a new technique, and a new reason to question every decision she had ever made. Monday was classical French sauces. Tuesday was butchery. Wednesday was the day she had dreaded all week.
Each student had to draw an ingredient at random and create a full three-course tasting menu around it.
She had drawn fennel.
Of all the items in that bowl, she had pulled out fennel, the vegetable that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be food or a breath mint.
But the night before, she had gone home with her sketchbook, her laptop, and a cup of tea that grew cold while she worked, and she had figured it out. Fennel-cured salmon to start, with a citrus crème fraîche. A warm white bean and fennel velouté for the main course. And for dessert, the one idea she had almost discarded three times, a fennel and honey panna cotta. She believed it would turn out well.
By the time the afternoon session ended, her feet ached. But she smiled as she looked at the panna cotta, which had set perfectly. Mr. Nelson had come to her station, picked up a spoon, tasted it, and said nothing for about three seconds.
Unusual, he said finally.
Thank you, Sir.
She was rolling up her knife set when she heard a knock, three sharp taps on the glass panel of the kitchen door.
She looked up with a smile.
Michael leaned against the doorframe with his jacket draped over one arm. He had pushed his reading glasses up into his hair and wore that tired expression he always had at the end of the day. There were always ink stains on two of his fingers.
You’ve got flour on your face, he said.
Oh really? she replied.
He grinned and held the door open. She walked out into the corridor.
How has work been lately? He asked, walking beside her.
I broke a sauce.
Did it die?
The second one survived.
At least you’re making progress, he said.
How was the shop?
Sold out of the recent collection again, he said.
They turned toward Michael’s bookstore. Alina sat in the reading nook and untied her shoes.
Michael returned with two cups of coffee, handed one to her, and sat beside her.
How are your mom and your so-called dad? he asked, looking down at his coffee as if the question was casual.
Alina wrapped both hands around her mug. You mean my mom and her husband? I guess they are okay. But living with them doesn’t feel like home. To me, it’s just a house where I sleep.
I’ll move out once I graduate and get a job, she added.
Michael nodded. It seemed he always understood her feelings. Although their conversation didn’t fix anything, she felt relieved to have someone like him by her side.
She made her way home. Upon arrival, she found her mother in the kitchen, crying.
Mom? Alina dropped her bag. What happened?
Her mother didn’t look up right away. When she did, her eyes were red. He’s gone, Alina.
Who?
Her mother let out a hollow laugh. My husband ran away. He took all the money from our joint account.
Alina’s stomach dropped. What do you mean, Mom?
I mean the joint account is empty, her mother said, pressing her palms against the table. He scammed me. Before we got married, he tricked me into believing he was rich. The cars, the fancy dinners, it was all a borrowed life. He made me believe he was wealthy.
Alina pulled out the chair opposite her mother and sat down.
Why would he do this? Alina asked quietly.
Her mother shook her head as if the answer might fall out if she moved enough. I don’t know anything anymore.
Her hands began to tremble.
Mom…?
I feel a little… Her mother pressed a hand to her chest.
The sentence never finished.
She slumped forward.
Mom!
Alina rushed to catch her just before she hit the floor. Her mother’s skin felt cold.
Mom, wake up. Please!.
No response.
Help! Alina shouted, her voice echoing through the house. Somebody help!
Just then, a few neighbors heard her and rushed inside.
What happened?
I don’t know! She just collapsed!
Two neighbors lifted her mother carefully while Alina grabbed her bag with shaking hands. Everything became blurry, the rush outside, the car door slamming shut. Someone told her to sit and hold her mother’s hand.
The ride to the hospital felt both too fast and not fast enough. Alina kept talking, even when she wasn’t sure if her mother could hear her.
It’s okay… we’re almost there… you’ll be fine…
But her mother’s hand remained limp in hers.
- Writer
