THERESA
“There you are!” My mom grabbed me by my mock-neck collar as soon as I entered the dining area. My pulse quickened at the gesture, but I instantly relaxed upon seeing she was facing the other direction and dragging me toward the kitchen. At least this wasn’t about that.
I hadn’t even had the time to imagine why she was dragging me by the collar as if I were a dog when she planted me in front of our cook. “It’s about time you learn how to make borscht. Your future mate will be expecting it,” my mom said. “Every good Ukrainian wife knows how to make a good borscht.”
“Every good Ukrainian wife?” I asked, lifting an eyebrow. While, rationally, I knew I was half Ukrainian, I’d certainly never been raised as if I were. We never ate her home country’s food, even with a cook that was fr
