Chapter 327
**Sara**
Dad straightened up, suddenly serious. "Listen, pumpkin. Work hard, absolutely. Build that career. Your future will be bright if you put in the effort now." He gestured toward Charles with his tongs. "But look at your brother! He's got a good job, AND he found Melissa. They'll be married soon, mark my words."
Charles puffed out his chest. "That's right, little sis. Some of us can handle multiple life achievements simultaneously."
"Oh, please. You and Melissa dated for more than five years. Let's not pretend you're some efficiency expert."
"Hey!" Charles protested.
Mom appeared from the pantry with a bottle of olive oil. "Charles, don't antagonize your sister."
"She started it!"
"Did not!"
"Children," Mom warned, but her smile betrayed her amusement.
Dad wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "All I'm saying is, don't close yourself off to possibilities. Work hard, but keep your eyes open. The right person might be closer than you think."
If only he knew how right he was. Tom's face flashed in my mind, and I felt my cheeks warming.
"Fine, fine," I conceded, desperate to change the subject. "I'll find someone soon. Happy?"
"Ecstatic," Dad replied, clearly not believing me but willing to drop it for now. He hefted his platter of steaks. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Destiny and this grill."
As Dad marched toward the backyard with determination, I turned to Mom. "So, about that lasagna, you mentioned on the phone..."
Mom's face lit up. "Oh yes! It's almost ready. Just needs another ten minutes in the oven."
"With the extra cheese?" I asked hopefully.
"Of course! What kind of mother would I be if I forgot the extra cheese?" She swatted my hand playfully as I tried to sneak another tomato. "Stop picking at the salad, or there won't be any left for dinner."
"Sorry," I said, not feeling sorry at all. "Need any help?"
"You can set the table. Plates are in the usual cabinet."
I moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, grabbing plates and silverware from their usual spots. The familiar routine felt comforting after weeks of takeout and rushed meals at my desk, always feeling like I was stealing moments from my busy schedule. Sure, I could cook my own meals, and I did it well enough, but nothing compared to eating Mom's cooking. There was something special about it, something that made me feel at home in a way that my own dishes never quite managed.
"So," Mom said casually as she checked on the garlic bread, "how's the new job really going? Any interesting coworkers?"
I nearly dropped a fork. "It's fine. Everyone's nice. Professional."
"Mmhmm," Mom hummed, not looking convinced. "And that's why you're blushing?"
"I'm not blushing! It's just hot in here."
"The thermostat says 72 degrees, dear."
I busied myself with napkin folding. "Must be the oven heat."
Mom gave me that look – the one that said she knew I was hiding something but wouldn't push. Yet.
Charles poked his head back inside from the patio. "Dad wants to know if we have any more of that special barbecue sauce."
"Top shelf in the fridge," Mom replied.
"And maybe the fire extinguisher while you're at it," I muttered.
Charles snorted. "Actually, he's doing surprisingly well out there. No flames higher than three feet so far."
"That's reassuring?" I raised an eyebrow.
"He's been watching YouTube tutorials all week," Mom explained. "Apparently, he's determined to master the grill before summer ends."
"Is that why there's a stack of burnt steaks in the trash?" I asked.
"Those were practice runs," Mom whispered conspiratorially. "Don't mention them. He's very sensitive about his grilling progress."
Charles grabbed the barbecue sauce from the fridge. "Hey, at least he's trying. Remember when he tried to deep-fry that turkey?"
We all shuddered at the memory.
"The fire department said they'd never seen anything quite like it," Mom recalled, shaking her head.
The timer on the oven dinged, saving us from further turkey disaster reminiscing.
"Lasagna's ready!" Mom announced, sliding on oven mitts.
The rich aroma of tomato sauce, herbs, and bubbling cheese filled the kitchen as she pulled out the golden-brown masterpiece. My mouth watered instantly.
"That," I declared, "is the most beautiful thing I've seen all month."
"More beautiful than those fancy financial reports at your new job?" Charles teased.
"Way more beautiful," I confirmed. "And definitely more delicious."
Mom beamed with pride. "Let's hope your father's steaks turn out half as well."
As if on cue, Dad burst through the back door, holding his platter of steaks triumphantly above his head like a trophy.
"Behold!" he proclaimed. "The perfect medium-rare!"
We all gathered around to inspect his handiwork. To my genuine surprise, the steaks actually looked... good. Properly seared on the outside, not burnt to a crisp or still mooing.
"Wow, Dad," I said, genuinely impressed. "You've been holding out on us."
His chest puffed up with pride. "Told you those tutorials were worth it."
"I never doubted you for a second, honey," Mom said, patting his arm while exchanging a knowing glance with me and Charles.
"Alright, enough admiring my culinary genius," Dad said. "Let's eat before it gets cold!"
As we carried the food to the dining table, I felt a wave of contentment wash over me. For all their quirks and prying questions, there was something irreplaceable about family dinners at home. No fancy restaurant or quick takeout could compare to this – Dad's surprisingly successful steaks, Mom's perfect lasagna, and even Charles's annoying but familiar teasing.
For a moment, I almost felt guilty about keeping Tom a secret from them. Almost.
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