As I anxiously remove the cheesecake from the oven, the aroma of vanilla and cinnamon permeates the room. Even though I know the recipe by heart, my hands shake a little as I check it again. I tell myself that it must be flawless this time.

“The guests are anticipating dessert, Andrei!” As usual, his voice comes from the living room, impatient and patronizing.

I garnished the cheesecake with fresh raspberries after carefully cutting it. Every action is planned, and his words from the last family meal are still ringing in my head, making me more anxious: “As usual, clumsy hands.” Not even able to properly cut a cake.

His parents, sister, and her husband all greet me with courteous smiles as soon as I walk into the living room. Only his mother gives me her typical squint of disapproval.

“Look, there’s our tiny chef!” Andrei declares with a grin that is more incisive than any slight. “Hopefully, she didn’t let us down with another catastrophe this time.”

I set the plates down without a word, avoiding their eyes. The first person to try it is Andrei. I hold my breath as the moment lengthens.

With a dramatic grimace, he starts, “Hmm.” “This? Is this what you call a cheesecake? Bony dry! I’ve told you a hundred times: don’t go above 160 degrees. Even for you, it isn’t that difficult.

I start to apologize, but he interrupts.

To be honest, how difficult is it to follow a recipe? I sometimes feel that I would have been better off marrying someone who is skilled in the kitchen.

There’s a burst of awkward, muted laughter, but it still happens. I stand frozen, heat rising in my cheeks, my grip tightening on the tray.

I stand in front of our bedroom mirror that evening as the house becomes quiet. I can’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Her eyes are dead, her shoulders are hunched, and her face is pale. Where had the happy, intelligent girl gone who had once dreamed of happiness and love?