this!”
I looked at her.
“Did you buy the beef?”
“No.”
“Did you prepare the sides?”
“No, but I handled the advertising.”
“Did you offer to help Frank with the smoker?”
She folded her arms.
“That wasn’t my responsibility.”
“Neither was feeding your customers mine.”
For the first time that afternoon, Colleen had nothing to say.
Mina picked up one of the empty containers.
She examined the label and frowned.
“Aunt Ellen, these labels say the food is prepared by you.”
“I can see that.”
“No,” Mina replied quietly.
“I mean they’re using your name as the business’s cook.
Not just saying it’s a family recipe.”
That distinction mattered.
They were not merely profiting from leftovers.
They were advertising my experience and reputation as though I’d joined their business.
I turned back to Aaron.
“Did you agree to this?”
He took a long breath.
“Yes.”
The admission hurt more than Colleen’s insults.
“Why?”
He glanced at Bianca.
Then he looked at me.
“I lost my job six weeks ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“The company eliminated my position.
I’ve been doing contract estimates when I can, but it’s not enough.”
I stared at him.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because I didn’t want you worrying.
And because I felt ashamed.”
His voice grew rough.
“Bianca came up with this idea.
Colleen said she could find customers.
I thought if we sold some barbecue, we could bring in money while I looked for another job.”
I understood the fear behind his decision.
I remembered being young and worried about paying the mortgage.
I remembered how frightening it felt when Frank’s factory reduced its workforce years earlier.
But understanding somebody’s desperation does not require accepting what they do with it.
“You could have asked me for help,” I said.
Aaron nodded.
“I know.”
“Instead, you told strangers I was working for you.”
He didn’t defend himself.
Then Colleen reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a clipboard.
“We don’t have time for family therapy,” she announced.
“We have orders to fulfill, and another event next Saturday.”
I turned toward her.
“What event?”
She stopped speaking.
I looked down at the clipboard.
The top sheet contained a printed order for eighty boxed lunches at a community event.
The customer had already paid a nine-hundred-dollar deposit.
The promised head cook was Ellen Porter.
Me.
The booking stated that preparation would take place at our property.
I slowly lifted my eyes.
“Aaron, what else have you agreed to?”
He looked toward Frank.
Then he whispered something that made the situation even worse.
“We’ve already been using the smoker when you aren’t home.”
Frank took one step forward.
“What did you say?”
Aaron rubbed his forehead.
“We used the spare key.
Just twice.
We needed to test recipes and photograph the setup.”
I remembered returning from a medical appointment the previous Tuesday and noticing fresh ash beneath the smoker.
Frank had blamed himself for forgetting to clean it.
I remembered a missing roll of foil and two empty disposable pans in the recycling bin.
I remembered how Aaron had asked whether we would be home on Wednesday morning.
All the little things I’d dismissed suddenly fit together.
The key we’d given our son for emergencies had become a way for him to enter our home
