Chapter 3

Michael noticed Mrs. Johnson’s face turning sour, so he tried to console her, playing the good guy again.

"Mrs. Johnson, don’t let those selfish people bother you."

I nodded in agreement. "Yeah, no compassion at all."

"Michael, I know you cook at home often, and you’re right across the hall from Mrs. Johnson. How about you make her some meals over the next few days?"

Michael’s expression instantly changed to one of pure panic.

"My cooking’s terrible. I doubt Mrs. Johnson would even like it."

"But your dad’s a retired chef from a fancy hotel. Surely cooking for an elderly neighbor wouldn’t be too difficult?"

Michael’s dad lived with him, and the two were known for their nightly meals and occasional drinks, the aromas wafting through the halls for everyone to enjoy.

Michael’s face turned pale. "That’s not gonna work! We only cook stuff that goes well with a drink. Mrs. Johnson’s tastes are different. And anyway, what if something goes wrong and she gets sick? Who’s gonna be responsible?"

See? He knew all along how risky it was, but it only mattered when it wasn’t his responsibility.

Smiling, I played along.

"Exactly, Michael. You know how dangerous it is to feed someone else. So why didn’t you warn me when I was cooking for Mrs. Johnson a few days ago?"

"Luckily, nothing happened. Michael, you wouldn’t have let me take the blame on purpose, would you?"

Sweat began dripping down Michael’s back as he stammered out a response.

"I—I just didn’t think of it until now. Anyway, I’ve been working nights, so I should probably get some sleep."

Michael made a hasty exit.

Mrs. Johnson shot me a glance from the doorway, her face a twisted mix of frustration and defeat.

"Never mind. It was just a moment of carelessness on my part. I’ll make sure to be more careful in the kitchen from now on."

"As for what happened yesterday, my son definitely overreacted. Please don’t take it to heart, Sarah."

I thought for a moment that Mrs. Johnson had finally changed her ways.

But it turns out, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

Later that afternoon, community volunteers came by to drop off supplies—bags of flour, rice, and oil—to help Mrs. Johnson out.

But she looked at the items with pure disdain.

"I don’t eat this kind of oil. It’s all GMO. Not healthy at all."

"And what am I supposed to do with flour? I’m an old woman! Do you expect me to knead dough on my own?"

The community workers exchanged awkward glances.

Then Mrs. Johnson’s gaze shifted to the takeout bag in my hand.

"Sarah, that takeout smells delicious. Why don’t you give me a bite?"

"Mrs. Johnson, this takeout is all processed junk food. It’s not good for you at your age. You should really stick to cooking at home."

I quickly grabbed my takeout and closed the door, devouring it in record time.

In my past life, I’d ordered takeout for Mrs. Johnson plenty of times. She was picky, only wanting the priciest meals. One time, when a heavy rainstorm delayed the delivery, she refused to eat the food and called to complain.

"Sarah, what is this garbage you ordered? It’s cold and inedible!"

"Take it back home with you when you get off work. I’m not touching it!"

Of course, she never paid me for any of the takeout.

Looking back, I can’t believe how I was such a pushover—working like a dog, too broke to order food for myself, yet still paying out of pocket to get her the best meals.

After finishing my takeout, I reclined on the balcony, enjoying the breeze in my lounge chair.

This relaxed life was heaven.

Suddenly, the video doorbell buzzed, alerting me to someone at the door.

It was Mrs. Johnson again, I assumed, back to cause more trouble. But when I checked the live feed, I saw a man standing there instead.

Judging by his posture, he looked a lot like Michael’s dad.

And right now, the two of them were holding hands, exchanging glances so intense you could almost see sparks flying between them.

Well, well, well. Looks like there’s more to this story than I thought.

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