When the Anger Arrived
The next morning, at 9:03 a.m., someone pounded on our front door.
Emily froze.
I did not need to look to know who it was.
My parents stood outside, faces tight, voices already raised.
My mother pushed past me the moment I opened the door.
“What were you thinking?” she snapped. “Posting online? Feeding strangers? People are calling us selfish.”
I crossed my arms.
“Then maybe you should ask yourself why.”
My father tried to soften things, explaining that the restaurant felt easier, that it had seemed practical.
I looked at him and said, “Emily cooked for three days.”
