I remember that day with crystal clarity. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, catching little specks of dust in the air, but all I could focus on was the call from our pediatrician. Our six-year-old twins, Corin and Liora, were rapidly losing weight. Blood tests revealed alarming deficiencies—iron, vitamins—things that didn’t make sense. I’d always prepared thoughtful, nutritious meals: fresh fruits, steamed vegetables, lean proteins, whole grains. Each container in the fridge was labeled by day, ready for my mother-in-law, Tilde, who watched the kids after school.
Tilde claimed she loved cooking for them, but I worried her traditional meals might be too rich or heavy. That’s why I prepped everything—simple to reheat, well-balanced. Still, the kids began looking paler by the week, their faces thinner. The doctor even questioned whether we were feeding them enough, which was devastating to hear.
Evren, my husband, tried to reassure me. “You’re overthinking it,” he’d say. “Kids get sick sometimes.” But something in my gut told me this wasn’t normal. The twins, once excited about mealtimes, started dreading them. When I asked what they’d eaten, they’d give vague answers. One day, Corin even burst into tears, afraid he’d get in trouble for telling the truth. Over food? That’s when I knew I had to find out what was really happening.
I told Tilde I had to work late that Wednesday, then left early and headed straight home. My heart was racing. I was terrified I’d find the kids sick—or worse. But what I walked into was something I hadn’t imagined.
The smell hit me first—burnt food, smoke. I crept through the hallway and peeked into the kitchen. Tilde stood over the trash can, scraping untouched portions of my prepared meals right into the bin. At the table, Corin and Liora sat stiffly, clearly anxious. Tilde turned around holding a pot filled with some thick, murky stew. She ladled it into their bowls and snapped, “Finish every bite or no cartoons tonight.”
I stood frozen for a moment, stunned. She’d been throwing out my meals and replacing them with her own. I stepped into the room. She jumped, dropping the ladle. My voice trembled. “What are you doing?” I asked. She fumbled for words, insisting my food was too “modern,” and that her recipes were “real food.”
The twins looked up at me with a mixture of hope and fear, like they’d been silently waiting for me to step in. I told Tilde we needed to talk, to sit down. She refused—angrily accusing me of disrespecting her traditions and trying to starve my own children.
The kids were crying. I pulled them into my arms and told them none of this was their fault.
Evren walked in minutes later to a kitchen full of tension. He glanced from his mother to the discarded food to the look on my face…