Chapter 2: You're No Cinderella!

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Welcome to the second chapter of 'Details'.

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Chapter 2: You're no Cinderella!


Sang P.O.V.


"Your mother is cooking." Cooking?

"She never cooks," I said, looking at my father in shock. "Why would she be cooking?"

"She was hungry and got tired of waiting for you. Before I left to pick you up, I think I saw her take out the spaghetti." I cringed at the few memories I had of her cooking. I'd be happy if she hadn't burned down the house by the time we returned.

"I'm not very hungry," I said before I could stop myself and looked at him from the corner of my eye. The last thing I needed was for my father to think me disrespectful and tell my mother. The wry grin on his face and the raise of his shoulders made me nervous. I wasn't used to my father being so expressive.

"Same here." Oh. I breathed out in relief. Crisis averted.

My father was usually a much quieter man. He preferred to keep a distance from the anger at home, and often hid away at work. Ever since I had started working as a maid, however, and he took me to and from work, he had been acting strangely.

His hands were twisting around the steering wheel of the car. He stared ahead and I could see the muscles in his jaw tensing. He looked like he wanted to say more, but I was still too unsure about the new twist to his personality to encourage him. The silence continued as he pulled up to our driveway on Sunnyvale Court. I hurried out of the car, eager to leave the tense quiet.

I entered the house and cringed at the smell of burnt food. I hoped that there hadn't been an actual fire. I wasn't even sure if the fire alarm worked...

We'd only lived in the grey house for a few weeks, so it was still strange to think of it as 'home'. I had unpacked the boxes and had basically finished setting everything in place a little over a week ago, but a few of the details still had to be checked or corrected. The kitchen had given me the most work, but I was very satisfied with how I'd organized it all. Thinking of the kitchen brought back my worry over my mother's cooking adventure. I was terrified of having to start organizing the kitchen all over again.

Reaching the scene of the crime, I let out a pained sigh. How can one woman make such a mess? There were broken spaghetti pieces strewn all over the off-white tiles and a small stream was still dripping from the tap. The stove was completely drenched and it looked like she had tried to blow up a small animal in the microwave. I could only assume that she had overheated a red sauce, as I refused to think of any alternative. Knives, forks and spoons were scattered over the counters. My mother, of course, was nowhere to be found.

I resignedly started the long cleaning process. I was on my knees, scrubbing the floor clean of more rogue sauce, when my father entered the kitchen. I sat up and wiped my forehead. He sent me a look that I had trouble interpreting. I waited for him to tell me what was so obviously weighing on his mind, but he only stared at me.

Too tired to bother with trying to figure him out, and having been socially exhausted from meeting Victor earlier today, I gave up and continued scrubbing.

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