Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

Those who pointed fingers at others for cheating ended up cheating themselves and got caught red-handed by their husbands. Those who claimed
others were unloved had husbands who never came home, keeping mistresses everywhere. And those who accused men of infidelity ended up with
AIDS because their own husbands were unfaithful.
He strolled through the streets, broadcasting these juicy scandals on a loop with his megaphone. He insisted that if anyone in town didn't know about
these dramas, it was his oversight.
In short, karma had caught up with these women, and now they were too busy dealing with their own messes to worry about anyone else.
If I were to paint a picture, I'd say Aunt Marie like a modest tree—not particularly tall or strong, but one that had weathered time, witnessed life's ups
and downs, and held a calm demeanor that could take it all in. At first glance, she seemed fragile, but her roots were deep and intertwined, standing
firm against the storms.
Jonah, on the other hand, was like a wild wolf tamed by a sturdy vine, keeping his claws and fangs at bay. His wild nature was gradually softened by
the tree's gentle presence, though you could still sense the untamed energy lingering beneath.
Painful days seemed to drag on forever, while moments of happiness slipped away in the blink of an eye. The closer it got to the start of school, the
more anxious I felt.
Living here felt like a blessing. But this happiness was something I had borrowed, and my health was at its peak. School felt like a looming end, ready
to disrupt the fragile comfort zone I had cobbled together.
Desperate to strengthen my bond with this home, I decided to rise at five in the morning and quietly tackle the household chores. By the time Jonah
made his way downstairs, I was just setting breakfast on the table.
He glanced around before looking at me. "You’ve done my chores. What am I supposed to do now?"
I pointed to the scrambled eggs and toast, grinning. "Eat breakfast."
He clicked his tongue and pulled out a chair. After a few bites, his chewing slowed noticeably. He looked up, hesitant. "Do you think it’s good?"
I glanced at the half-eaten meal, baffled. "It’s delicious."
I’m not picky. As long as the food’s cooked, I’m happy. Across from me, his hand holding the fork trembled slightly. "Are you serious?"
"It really is good. I’m the best cook in my family."

My mom's cooking was always a potluck mess, and my dad couldn’t cook to save his life. You could say I was the culinary star at home. Even when
my dad would rant while drunk, he never criticized my cooking.
He took a sharp breath. "Your taste buds must have packed their bags and left home. Calling it good would be a lie, but saying it's bad might hurt
your confidence. Let’s just say, your cooking would be perfect for a famine."
"Huh?"
He shot me a meaningful glance. "It’s great for curbing appetite."
If Jonah's words were tactful, Aunt Marie was straight to the point. She took a bite, her brow furrowed. "Son, this breakfast isn’t up to scratch. Don’t
make it again."
Jonah kept quiet. I chimed in softly, "Honestly, it’s not that bad. I think it tastes pretty good."
She replied, "Lana, you don’t need to cover for him. This meal is lacking in every way. I think even pigs would run away from it."
I rubbed my nose. My dad loved my scrambled eggs and toast and never had to run anywhere, which probably explains why he couldn’t even outdo a
pig.