After reading a letter from someone she has never met, Gemma Moreno is offered a once in a lifetime opportunity that could change her life forever. Torn between accepting an offer she knows she will never be able to repay, Gemma needs to decide if...
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Mr. and Mrs. Newman forced me to take home an obscene amount of food, and my fingers are beginning to crack under the pressure of the grocery bags. I tried desperately to remind them of what they were already doing for me, but they refused my pleas and made sure we had enough to get us through the week.
Since Dom's raspy cough kept him up most of the night, I carefully open my apartment door incase he's asleep. Despite my attempts at being quiet, the rusty hinges creak in protest, and my head snaps to the couch to see if I woke him. When he doesn't peek up from under his puffy blue blanket, I tip-toe into our home and begin to put the groceries away.
Unpacking the contents of the last bag, I can't help but release a small chuckle. Mrs. Newman insisted I tell her all of Dom's symptoms and told me the best medicines to help him get better. Dom and I are now the proud owners of our very own miniature pharmacy, a first for us.
The mixture of emotions I have coursing through me has left me utterly bewildered. I think the most foreign feeling is hope. I can't remember the last time the grass truly felt greener on the other side, and despite my efforts to reject their proposition, this whole miracle has me eager to see what comes next.
Resting against the kitchen counter with my arms crossed in front of me, I let out a sigh of relief. The weight I have been lugging around on my shoulders the last few months seems to have disappeared.
Finally.
Deciding to make an old family recipe, I take out the fixings to make Dom chicken noodle soup.
I can't remember the last time I cut into fresh vegetables, I've usually stocked up on canned goods and frozen veggies when they were on sale. The carrots are crisp and crunch every time my knife cuts into them. I even welcome the sting in my eyes when I dice the onions.
Taking out my biggest pot, I pour in the yellow chicken broth and mix in the fresh produce. When I turn on the stove, the aroma of the delicious mixture begins to fuse as one.
When I was sick as a child, Daniella would always make me soup, and once I got old enough, she taught me how to make it myself. She wasn't always a horrible mother, but when Dad passed, it was like a switch flipped, and she was no longer the woman I grew to know.
Not wanting to waste any more time thinking about her, I move onto the scrumptious smelling rotisserie chicken. Even covered, the aroma of its mixed herb coated skin wafts through the small kitchen. When I remove the lid, the smell only magnifies, and my mouth begins to water. I don't know the last time I had something this grand in my stomach.
Firmly grasping the wooden handle of my knife, I begin to dice the meat into small cubes. The sharp edge glides through it as if it was butter, releasing its clear juices.
My thoughts once again move to my mother, wondering where she is and what she is doing. Unfortunately, I can't help it sometimes. Although I know it is wrong, I hope she is suffering more than we are.
