Chapter 1

I meal prepped for my coworker for three years, and she paid me ten dollars each time.

I cooked every single day, using only the finest ingredients. The cost of each meal was at least fifteen to sixteen dollars.

I lost over two thousand dollars of my own money over those three years, but I figured we were coworkers, so why count pennies?

Until today, when I overheard her talking to someone else in the breakroom.

"She’s definitely pocketing a profit. Why else would she make me food every single day? She’s just cheap, trying to squeeze every cent out of me."

I walked back to my desk, pulled her bento box out, and dumped the entire lunch into the trash.

When she came back and saw the empty bento box, she demanded, "Where's my food?"

I looked up. "From today on, buy your own. I’m done making a profit off you."

The breakroom door was slightly ajar. I stood outside with my mug in hand, my hand freezing on the doorknob.

Chloe's voice drifted out from inside.

"She makes me lunch every single day. You think she isn’t getting a kickback? All those 'premium ingredients' she talks about don’t even sound real."

"I bet she just buys the cheapest stuff from the supermarket and hypes it up to sound fancy."

The other voice belonged to Ashley, a coworker from my department. She lowered her voice and asked:

"Really? I mean, the food always looks so good."

"Good? Please."

Chloe let out a scoff.

"Let me tell you, that stuff is definitely not fresh. It’s probably the clearance food the supermarket tries to get rid of at night. Why else would she be so willing to do it every day?"

"Do the math. Ten bucks a meal. She’s making at least a five-dollar profit off me.

Five dollars a day is over a hundred a month. Over three years? That adds up to a lot. She’s calculating."

I heard Ashley hesitate for a moment.

"But she eats the same food herself. Surely she wouldn’t eat garbage?"

"Who knows? Maybe she makes a separate, better batch for herself."

Chloe's tone was filled with absolute certainty.

"I only keep eating her food to save her some face."

"Honestly, I’m so sick of it. It’s the same few dishes over and over. Who can stand that? I was just too polite to say anything."

Ashley laughed. "Then why do you keep letting her do it?"

"It’s been three years. If I suddenly tell her to stop, it would be so awkward. Plus, knowing her, if I stop, she’ll definitely go behind my back and call me ungrateful."

I stood frozen in the hallway. The water in my mug had gone completely cold.

A wave of pure disgust welled up in my stomach.

Three years. Over a thousand working days. I got up at six-thirty every single morning to pick out the freshest ingredients at the local market. I washed, chopped, stir-fried, and simmered, packing the food into two bento boxes—one for her, one for myself.

Three years ago, on a Tuesday afternoon, she told me her stomach was in terrible shape. Her doctor had told her to stop eating takeout.

She said she lived alone and absolutely hated cooking.

I had just gotten an endoscopy back then and received the exact same warning from my doctor, which was why I started bringing my own lunch to work.

She was the one who approached me first.

"Nora, your lunch smells amazing."

"Can I join your meal prep? I’ll pay you for each meal."

Back then, she offered to pay me ten dollars a meal.

I didn’t refuse. I thought, we are coworkers, and helping each other out is just what people do.

Back then, her face was pale and sickly, her cheekbones jutting out. She had no energy when she spoke, clearly worn down by her stomach issues.

Looking at her, I remembered my own worst days when I couldn't keep any food down and lost fifteen pounds.

So, I started spending an extra forty minutes every morning making her portion.

The organic heritage pork ribs were bought from a specialized butcher. They cost twice as much as regular pork, but the meat was tender, not greasy, and very gentle on the stomach.

Just the ingredients alone, not counting water, electricity, gas, or my own labor, cost at least fifteen to sixteen dollars.