Chapter 1

When I was a child, I stole a steamed bun from my stepfather. My mother grabbed a rolling pin and smashed it against my head three times.

From then on, she beat me for six whole years.

Now, she is lying in the ICU at Oakwood Community Hospital, suffering from liver failure, her life hanging by a thread.

On the other end of the phone, Lucy was sobbing until she was gasping for air. "Nora, Mom is dying! Are you coming back or not?"

I was holding a pot with one hand, straining a freshly brewed mushroom broth through a fine mesh sieve.

"She is your mother."

"She's your mother too!" Lucy shrieked.

I turned off the stove and poured the broth into a thermal container.

"I don't have a mother."

Lucy froze for two seconds before her voice pitched up an octave. "Nora, are you even human? She gave birth to you! She raised you! You are nothing but an ungrateful brat!"

I didn't say a word.

Raised me?

When I was seven, my mother married Gary and moved us into the Gary family’s bungalow.

That day, Gary brought home a steamer of small steamed buns. They were piping hot, and the aroma of meat filled the entire house.

I was in the corner doing my homework, my stomach rumbling. Lunch had been yesterday’s leftover porridge, long since digested.

Lucy grabbed the buns, popping them into her mouth one after another while watching cartoons.

My mother was bustling around with a plate, serving them with a face full of fawning wrinkles. "Eat slowly, Lucy, don't choke."

No one called me.

I waited until Gary and Lucy had finished. There was one bun left in the steamer. I was so incredibly hungry that when no one was looking, I took it and took a bite.

Gary walked out of the bathroom, saw the bun in my hand at a glance, and his face darkened.

"Who told you to eat that?"

My hand trembled in fear, and the bun fell to the floor.

My mother rushed out of the kitchen, saw the bun on the ground, then looked at the oil stain on the corner of my mouth, and whipped her hand across my face.

"Who told you to steal food? Huh? Who told you to touch it?"

She dragged the rolling pin from behind the door and started raining blows down on me.

The first blow landed on my shoulder.

The second blow hit my back.

The third blow smashed into my arms, which were wrapped around my head.

Gary lounged on the sofa, legs crossed, never saying a word from beginning to end.

Lucy covered her mouth and giggled.

That year, I was seven.

From that day on, I knew one thing—in this house, I didn't even deserve a single bun.

"Nora? Nora, are you listening?" Lucy was still screaming on the phone.

I collected my thoughts and wiped my hands.

"I heard you."

"Then come back."

"I'm not coming back."

"You—"

I hung up.

My assistant, Lu, walked in with the ingredient list. "Nora, the private banquet for Mr. Cole is scheduled for Friday. Please take a look at the menu."

I took the list and scanned it. "Swap the abalone for pine mushrooms. Mr. Cole has been monitoring his uric acid levels recently."

Lu nodded and made a note, hesitating for a moment. "That phone call just now..."

"It's nothing."

I untied my apron, hung it up, and walked into my office.

On the wall hung the logo of my brand, "Nora's Kitchen," next to photos of my five restaurant branches, and beside those, the Gold Medal certificate from last year’s national private kitchen competition.

I left that home when I was fourteen. It has been twelve years since then.

In these twelve years, not a single person has looked for me or asked if I was dead or alive.

Now that she’s dying, she finally remembers me.

I picked up my phone and added Lucy’s number to the blacklist.

The phone rang again; it was a landline.

I hesitated for a moment, then answered.

"Is this Nora? It’s Auntie Liu."

"Auntie Liu," I said in a flat tone.

"Nora, dear, have you heard about your mother’s condition? The doctors say a living liver transplant is necessary. Lucy isn't a match, but you’re your mother’s biological daughter; you have the best chance of matching. You need to come back for a check-up."

"Auntie Liu, I cut ties with those people a long time ago."

"Cut ties? That’s your own mother! The flesh on your body came from her! In this world, what kind of child doesn't want their own mother?"

I gripped the phone, my knuckles turning white.

"And in this world, is there any mother who would beat her own daughter with a rolling pin for six years?"

There was silence on the other end.

"Auntie Liu, I’ll say it again: I am not going back."

"You child—"

I hung up.

Three minutes later, my phone exploded with notifications.

Seven missed calls, four text messages, and two WeChat voice messages.

They were all from relatives.

I set everything to silent, tossed the phone into a drawer, and went out to inspect the shops.

The first shop was located in an alley in the old town, with six tables, serving only twelve guests a day.

This was the first shop I opened when I was twenty, using the culinary skills Grandma C taught me, built up entirely by word of mouth.

When I walked into the kitchen, my phone vibrated in my pocket again.

I didn't look at it.

"Nora," the head chef, Aze, said as he walked up, wiping his hands. "A guest today specifically requested your crab roe tofu."

"Who is it?"

"They said they were introduced by Mr. Cole, surname Shen."

I nodded. "I’ll make it."

I tied on my apron and stood in front of the stove, the steam rising.

In this world, only the stove never lies. However much heart you put into it, it returns that much flavor to you.

Unlike people.

The oil in the pan was at the perfect temperature. I added the crab roe, and the fragrance surged up instantly.

I remembered when I was little, in the kitchen at Gary’s house, my mother had made crab roe tofu too.

Back then, it was Gary’s birthday, and my mother had specially bought crabs, spending the whole afternoon picking out the roe and fat.

Once it was done, she served a full plate at the table.

Gary ate half, and Lucy ate the other half.

I was in the kitchen, gnawing on a plain steamed bun.

When my mother passed by me, I whispered, "Mom, can I have a taste?"

She didn't even look back. "That’s a birthday dish for your father. He hasn't even had enough, so how could it ever be your turn?"

He wasn't my father.

But she made me call him "Dad."

If I didn't, I got beaten.

Chapter 2

Lucy showed up sooner than I expected.

The following noon, while I was preparing dishes in the open kitchen of my flagship store, a waiter hurried in.

"Nora, there's a woman outside making a scene, demanding to see you. She says she's your sister."

I didn't stop what I was doing. "Tell her I'm not here."

Before the waiter could turn around, Lucy's voice had already carried through the dining room.

"Nora! Get out here right now!"

Over a dozen guests dining in the room turned their heads in unison.

I set down my spatula, wiped my hands, and walked out.

Lucy was standing at the entrance, her hair a mess, the dark circles under her eyes looking like two smudges of coal dust.

She was wearing a pilling sweatshirt, and the soles of her sneakers were coming apart.

She looked nothing like the little girl in my memory, who always wore pink princess dresses and clutched snacks in her hands.

"You're living pretty well, aren't you?" She scanned the decor of the shop and curled her lip.

"Say what you have to say."

"I've told you a hundred times. Mom needs a liver transplant. You need to come back and get tested."

"I said no."

"Are you really planning to watch her die?"

"When she was beating me, she never wondered if I might die."

Lucy froze for a moment, then her voice grew shrill again. "That was ages ago! Are you still holding a grudge? She is your own mother!"

"My own mother?" I let out a laugh.

I extended my left arm and rolled up my sleeve to the elbow.

On the inside of my forearm was a three-centimeter-long scar, caused by her pressing a red-hot iron tong against my skin when I was ten.

"Holding a grudge? Lucy, do you even know how I got this scar?"

She looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Of course you don't. You were in the living room eating chips and watching TV, while I was in the kitchen, held down by your mother, and branded with those iron tongs."