I’d thought New York was the epitome of chef success, all fast-paced and grueling. But now, I found myself in a brand-new kitchen in Chicago, pausing between flips of an omelet to realize I hadn’t even broken a sweat. That used to be unthinkable. Yet the calmer pace didn’t feel wrong, just…different.
I wasn’t hating my job, which was why it felt strange. But since I wasn’t hating it, it also felt really, really good. Maybe not hating my job was an actual success.
“Chef, ticket for table four,” called Marcus, my line cook, from across the pass. He was a fantastic line cook, always on time, always ahead of the rest of the kitchen. I would have thought he was handsome if he had another twenty years on him. Dark hair, a day’s worth of stubble at all times, nice square shoulders.
But every man under forty looked underbaked these days.
I glanced over, giving him a nod. “On it,” I said, plating up eggs benedict with a flourish. As I drizzled spicy hollandaise, my mind briefly wandered to my old life—sliding plated dishes across to Dom when he visited me after hours. I forced the memory aside, focusing on the swirl of sauce.
This is my reality now.
Across from me, Tanya, our pastry chef, approached with a tray of fresh croissants. Her rainbow-colored hair was pinned up in a bandana. She had the personality of a manic pixie dream girl and the body of an anime character. She was short, had big boobs that made it hard for her apron to fit right, and a crooked grin that rarely faded. “Morning rush is wild, but it’s less crazy than yesterday.”
I gave a half-smile. “I’ll take it. Yesterday, I swear we had a dozen orders for those stuffed French toast bombs all at once.”
“Hey, that’s your fault—advertising them on the specials board, Miss Creative.”
I shrugged. “People here love sweet, over-the-top stuff for breakfast.”
Jason tapped my shoulder, and I handed him a plate. “Run that out, would you?”
He zipped off, leaving me to reorganize the line. Over the next half-hour, the flow of orders ebbed, and soon the midmorning lull set in.
Almost time to check on the twins.
“Chef, you cool if I prep some fruit compote for tomorrow’s brunch?” Tanya asked.
“Go for it,” I replied. “I’ll be back in a few.”
She winked. “Say hi to your babies for me.”
I tried not to grin too broadly. “Will do.” Then I slipped out of the kitchen, weaving past a few lingering customers to the stairs leading to my apartment. This stairway commute was still surreal, a far cry from the jam-packed sidewalks in Manhattan.
With every step, I thought about my little family. My girls were growing so fast, and I hated that Dom wasn’t here to see it. I gulped at the thought, shoved it away. My sister lived in a suburb nearby. I should give her a call. We’d never been close—she was twelve years older than me.
After Katie left home, Mom tried to turn me into a miniature version of herself. I blamed my sister for not being there to protect me from Mom’s bullshit, but I knew better now. That wasn’t her job. She was just trying to survive.
Maybe I should integrate her into my little family. I didn’t even know if she had kids herself. My girls might have cousins.
At my door, I let myself in quietly. Martha, the nanny, glanced up from the floor where she was playing with Marissa and Summer. “Hey there, Chef,” she greeted with a warm smile. “Your girls just finished their morning bottle. Perfect timing.”
I crouched down, heart softening at Marissa’s delighted squeal. “How’re my munchkins doing?”
Martha chuckled, pushing a strand of gray hair back. “They’re angels. Not a peep of complaint since breakfast.” She gestured at the crocheted blanket forming in her lap. “I got half a row done while they rolled around.”
I reached out to stroke Summer’s cheek, a tiny pang shooting through my chest. Dom would’ve loved seeing them so peaceful. Clearing my throat, I forced a smile. “Thanks, Martha. I just wanted to pop in and see them. We’re in a lull downstairs.”
“Take your time,” she said softly. “You deserve a little mama moment.”
For a minute, I did just that—scooping Summer into my arms, pressing a gentle kiss to her soft hair. Marissa grabbed at my sleeve, babbling. I indulged them with coos and tickles, letting a wave of calm wash over me. Then, too soon, I had to stand up, because the lunch prep beckoned.
“I’ll be back up in a couple hours,” I told Martha, handing Summer back.
She gave me a knowing nod. “We’ll be here.”
Back in the kitchen, the lull ended with a flurry of lunch orders—clubs, melts, and the occasional special request for a fancy salad, each with their own spin on the dish. I thrived on that mild chaos, orchestrating the line without feeling crushed by it, which was new. In Manhattan, I’d be gulping coffee, sweating through my chef coat, and praying for a spare minute. Here, I actually had a moment to chat with staff.
“Chef,” Marcus called from the stove, “what do you think about adding roasted poblano peppers to the soup tomorrow?”
I checked the simmering pot. “Do it,” I said, tasting a spoonful. “We’ll call it southwestern tomato bisque. Might spice things up for the dinner crowd.”
He gave me a thumbs-up. This dynamic was refreshing—I had the authority to shape the menu and still had the time to collaborate. No Carrie side-eye, no last-minute chaos overshadowing everything.
After the rush calmed, Tanya sidled over, wiping flour off her hands. “So, chef, you free to grab a coffee after this shift?”
I considered my schedule. “Yeah, I can do that. Martha’s got the twins, and I have a couple of hours before dinner.”
She grinned. “Awesome. I know a great place around the corner. Cozy vibes, strong coffee.”
“Sold. The only coffee I get is quick slugs in the storage room.” At least I’m not inhaling it in sheer panic like I used to.
Sure enough, after we closed lunch service, I told Marcus to hold the fort, changed into a clean shirt, and followed Tanya out onto the street. The crisp Chicago air felt good against my skin. People passed by with polite nods, a few in business attire, others more casual. The city’s vibe was calmer than Manhattan—less tension crackling in the air.
Tanya led me into a small coffee shop with wooden booths and a chalkboard menu. Once we had our drinks, mine a straightforward Americano, hers a caramel latte with extra whipped cream, we grabbed a corner table.
“So,” she said, leaning forward, “how are you settling in? Everything going well with the nanny, the apartment, that sort of thing?”
“Surprisingly, yes.” I blew on my coffee. “Martha’s great. The apartment’s bigger than anything I ever had in New York.”
She sipped her latte, foam dotting her upper lip. “And emotionally? You know…the breakup.”
My chest tightened. The second night at the restaurant, I made the mistake of getting drinks with the staff to get to know everyone and drunkenly confessed what brought me to Chicago after the group had dwindled down to me and Tanya. Thankfully, aside from being a wonderful pastry chef, she worked like our restaurant’s HR slash counselor.
“Still sucks,” I admitted, tracing the rim of my cup. “Time heals all wounds, right?”
Tanya reached across, patting my forearm. “That’s what they say.”
A wry laugh escaped me. “Doesn’t make the nights any easier, though.”
“Give it time. Chicago will grow on you, or maybe the universe has other plans. Could be this heartbreak frees you for something unexpected. You have to stay open to the possibilities of what might come along.”
“Yeah,” I murmured, forcing a smile. “We’ll see.” I fought with myself about what to say next. Tanya was always cheery, always positive. I wanted to warn her about living life that way, but I also didn’t want to take that away from her. If anyone could get through life happy as a clam, who was I to take that away from them?
We chatted about menu ideas and local festivals—apparently, Chicago had a million street fairs in the summer. Eventually, I headed back, grateful for the new friend I’d made and doing everything I could not to think about Dom.
That evening, I took the elevator up to find Martha humming a lullaby to the twins. She nodded at me, her crochet project still progressing, the twins dozing in a playpen. My heart squeezed. They look so peaceful. I saw her off, handing her an envelope with her weekly pay.
After that, I sank onto the sofa, listening to the quiet. My phone lay on the table, a brand-new Chicago number. No messages from Dom, obviously—he had no way to reach me now.
I forced myself not to think about him, focusing on the twins instead. But as I tucked them into their cribs, the memories rolled in like a tide: the way Dom used to cradle Marissa, how he’d grin whenever Summer grasped his finger. I pressed kisses to their foreheads, stepping back. “Sleep tight, my loves.”
In the tiny living room, I flicked on a lamp and picked up a battered notebook of recipes. My new boss was giving me free rein to experiment, so I’d jotted down half a dozen marinade concepts. But the scrawled notes blurred before my eyes, overshadowed by the heartbreak I couldn’t quite bury.
A knock on the door startled me. I hurried over, worried the noise might wake the twins. Cracking it open, I found Martha again, sheepish. “Forgot my keys on the counter,” she whispered.
I grabbed them from the coffee table, offering an apologetic smile. “No problem.”
She lingered, brow furrowing. “You all right, dear? You look…sad.”
My heart wobbled. “I’m fine. Just a long day.”
She squeezed my hand gently. “Well, if you ever need to talk, I’m next door.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
She left, and the apartment felt emptier than before. I gave up on the recipe notebook, deciding a hot bath might clear my head.
In the tub, steam curling around me, Dom’s face invaded my thoughts again. Was he mad at me or relieved? Did he know I left to protect him? A tear slipped down my cheek, lost in the bathwater.
The guilt flared the way it did every night. Maybe he’s dealing with Seth alone, maybe he hates me for that. But I had to do it.
When the water cooled, I trudged to bed, my phone silent on the nightstand. Before turning out the light, I paused to check on the twins. They breathed softly in unison, tiny fists curled. My throat tightened. “It’s worth it,” I whispered, as if they could understand. “He’ll never resent us if we’re not there to ruin his life.” The words tasted bitter, but I forced them out.
Time went by like that, my days filled with menus, staff camaraderie, short breaks with the twins, and late-night heartbreak. I refined the morning specials, introduced a few dinner items, and started receiving positive reviews from the local neighborhood blogs. “Steel Kitchen was on the rise,” the manager said, beaming as he showed me an online write-up praising my “inventive but comforting dishes”.
“See?” Tanya teased one afternoon, elbowing me. “The universe is rewarding you for trusting it.”
I smiled weakly, stirring a pot of rosemary-infused soup. “Maybe.”
That night, before heading home, I ventured out for a quick stroll to the corner store—milk, bread, small essentials. The evening air had that crisp Chicago feel. A few people I passed offered smiles or nods, and I managed to nod back.
On my way back, I paused in front of a window display showcasing baby clothes. A pink onesie with “Chicago’s Cutest” scrawled across it caught my eye. Dom would have teased me for buying something so touristy. But I walked in and bought two anyway, telling myself the twins needed new outfits.
Later, in the apartment, I held one of the onesies up to Summer’s sleeping form, imagining her wearing it and me texting Dom a photo. Except I couldn’t do that to him. No bridging that gap.
My tears splattered on the tiny garment, so I tucked it away. We’ll be okay, I told myself for the millionth time.
Like Tanya said, the world was full of possibilities and the universe…blah, blah, blah. That girl might have lived a charmed life, and I hoped she was able to continue doing so. But I had kids, so I had to accept the real world.
Crawling into bed, I stared at the ceiling, clutching a pillow. The ache throbbed in my chest, but Chicago had begun to feel like a real home—friendlier staff, a more balanced schedule, a calmer environment for the twins.
All I can do is keep going. I did the right thing. Now, I have to learn to live with it. Sometimes, you have to leave the people you love to save them.
Maybe that was what Katie thought when she left home. If she weren’t around, then Mom would stop using her as an accomplice in her scams, so she’d stop scamming. My sister had no reason to think Mom would turn to her youngest child to replace her lost teenager.
We do the best we can with what we’ve got at the time.
A tear slid down my cheek. I held onto that phrase, letting it lull me into an uneasy sleep. Because if I doubted it for one second, the heartbreak might swallow me whole.
