Everyone in My Family Had AC Except Me-So I Walked Away Chapter 08

Everyone in My Family Had AC Except Me-So I Walked Away Chapter 08

A few minutes later, someone knocked on the door. I wiped away my tears, stood up, and opened it. Dr. Grant

was standing outside with several young people behind him.

“Erin, are you settled in? It’s time for dinner. We’re all heading to the staff dining hall together. Consider it our

way of welcoming you to the team.”

A girl with a ponytail leaned out from behind him and waved at me with a bright smile.

“You must be Erin. I’m Kayla Morgan, and I live next door. Do you like the apartment? I made the bed for you.

Dr. Grant brought that little plant over from his office because he said a new room should have something

green in it.”

A young man wearing glasses stepped forward as well.

“The mug’s from me. I happened to have an extra one, so I brought it over. I wrote your name on the sticky note. My handwriting isn’t great, so I hope you don’t mind. I’m Noah Baker.”

Their kindness made me feel safe in a way I never had before. I clenched my fingers together, and my voice

trembled slightly.

“Thank you. The apartment is wonderful. I really love it. It’s nice to meet all of you.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

Kayla immediately looped her arm through mine and started pulling me toward the hallway.

“Come on. I’m starving. They’re serving honey-roasted chicken tonight, and if we get there too late, there

won’t be any left.”

I followed them into the dining hall. It was spacious and spotless, and the air was filled with the smell of freshly baked bread and roasted meat. Noah told me that the institute had hired several chefs from luxury

resorts and that all meals were complimentary for employees. Kayla pulled me into a seat and pushed the

menu toward me.

“Erin, what do you like to eat? Pick a few things you want.”

I stared at the menu for a long moment. It listed honey-roasted chicken, slow-roasted beef ribs, creamy

mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, tomato soup, and all kinds of salads and desserts. I opened my

mouth, and memories of eating at restaurants with my family came rushing back. They would hand me the

menu and tell me to choose too. But whenever I actually ordered something, they immediately found fault

with it.

Mom would say it was too greasy, Dad would say it was not worth the price, Jordan would complain that he

did not want it, and Lily would demand that we replace it with something she liked. Eventually, I stopped

taking part in ordering altogether. My first instinct was to say anything was fine, that I would eat whatever

they chose. The words nearly left my mouth, but I stopped myself. They genuinely wanted to know what I

liked

I could not keep hiding behind indifference just to protect myself.

“I like honey-roasted chicken,” I said, my voice slightly unsteady.

“And roasted potatoes.”

“No problem.”

Kayla immediately waved toward the serving counter.

“Honey-roasted chicken, roasted potatoes, one order of beef ribs, and tomato soup.”

The food arrived quickly. Kayla cut off a piece of the honey-roasted chicken and placed it on my plate.

“Try it. The chefs here make it really well.”

I lowered my eyes to the chicken on my plate. Its surface was coated in a light golden glaze that gleamed softly beneath the lights. I lifted it to my mouth, and the sweetness of the honey and the rich flavor of roasted meat spread across my tongue. My eyes began to burn again. I lowered my head and pretended to focus on eating, trying to force the tears back. But one still slipped free and splashed onto the rim of my plate. Kayla immediately panicked and pulled out a tissue.

“Why are you crying? Does it taste bad? Is it not what you wanted? We can get you something else right

away.”

“No.”

I shook my head, my voice catching.

“It isn’t bad. It’s just so good.”

I swallowed hard.

“No one has ever really asked me what I like to eat before. My family never made anything especially for me

either. This is the first time anyone has done that for me.”

Everyone at the table fell silent. There was no mockery in their eyes, only compassion and concern. Dr. Grant

set down his utensils and, after a brief silence, gently patted my shoulder.

“From now on, think of this place as your second home. Tell the chefs what you like. You don’t need to hold

back.”

I clutched the tissue in my hand and looked at the table full of steaming food, then at the people I had known for less than half a day. Their kindness made me realize for the first time that I, too, could be treated like I mattered. The years of neglect no longer felt like a wound I had to carry alone.