She returned her gaze to me and gripped the knife handle until her knuckles turned white and shook it to the beat of her words. “Grace, you can be anything in the world. And you. Want. To be. A cook?” Tears threatened to break through her anger. “No. You will not be a cook. You will never. Be. A cook.” She stormed off to the other side of our six-room bungalow, having crushed my culinary dreams.
