“Damn, I hope it's not burned," I grumble as I pull the homemade lasagna from the oven.
I sniff it, taking in the cheesy and tomato smell. No, it's perfect. I'm still a bit put out that despite my parents wanting me to have lunch at their house every Sunday, I'm still expected to make lunch from scratch and bring it.
Not that I don't love my parents, it's just that I've had a long week, and cooking something to their liking means buying organic ingredients from the nice grocery store.
I put on a nice blouse and my good jeans while the lasagna cools and remind myself to also grab the apple crumble I picked up from the bakery across town.
My parents still think I bake, but in reality, I can't stand it.
My phone buzzes a few times in a row and I wince before grabbing it.
I don't know
