Anger, pain and betrayal crashed over me like a tidal wave.
As Samuel walked toward the kitchen doorway, I quickly stuffed the marriage certificate back into his briefcase.
“Wash your hands and come eat.”
He entered the room, carrying a pot of soup, his face beaming with excitement.
I stood up but froze when I saw the large pot of chicken soup on the table.
I had once owned a pet chicken, but it had tragically fallen from the balcony and died. Since then, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to eat chicken soup.
Samuel knew this well.
As I stood there, lost in thought, the doorbell suddenly rang. I rushed to answer it.
When I opened the door, Starla was standing there, her belly swollen with pregnancy, a smug grin plastered on her face.
Before I even had a chance to invite her in, she breezed past me, practically barging through the door.
“Wow, that chicken soup smells amazing!” she exclaimed.
Samuel smiled at her.
“You came at the perfect time. You should drink more—it's good for you to replenish.”
His words hit me like a jolt and an uneasy feeling rose in my chest, a sense of dread that I couldn’t shake.
I forced down the anger building inside me and walked over.
“What are you doing here?”
Starla had already seated herself comfortably.
“Isn’t it fine to come visit? I also wanted to try Sammy’s cooking. It’s been ages since I’ve had it and I’ve really missed it.”
As she spoke, her gaze was fixed entirely on Samuel.
“Craving it, huh? I’ve got some pig’s trotters simmering in the kitchen too. You’ll have to eat a couple extra pieces later,” Samuel said, his focus entirely on Starla as he handed her a hot towel to wipe her hands.
“Go ahead, wipe your hands and dig in!” he added with a carefree smile, before turning back to the kitchen to bring out the trotters—completely ignoring my presence as if I were invisible.
It wasn’t until Samuel sat down across from Starla that he seemed to realize what had happened. He awkwardly got up and glanced at me.
“Cass, sit down and eat. Try the soup I made and let me know if it tastes good,” he said, dishing out a bowl of chicken soup and placing it in front of me.
Without thinking, I pushed the bowl away.
“Samuel, have you forgotten? I don’t drink chicken soup.”
The force of my push sent the hot soup splashing onto Samuel’s hand and he yelped in pain, stumbling back a step.
“Cassey, are you trying to burn me?”