Dinnertime.

After you had cleaned up, and put on some normal clothes, you made your way to the kitchen. Your next duty was to cook, you got out some pots and pans, and some food, but then realised, you had no idea what you were doing.

As you stood in the kitchen, staring blankly at the array of pots and pans in front of you, you heard the sound of your father's footsteps approaching. Your heart sank, and you felt a wave of anxiety wash over you. Was he gonna fuck you, or try to, again? You frantically scanned the recipe book on the counter, trying to make sense of the scribbled notes and cryptic instructions. The sound of your father's footsteps grew louder, and you could feel your palms growing sweaty as you tried to think of something to say. "Hey, sweetie, what's for dinner?" your father asked, his booming voice making you jump.

Your eyes darted towards your father, a **** smile plastered on your face as you tried to composed yourself. "Uh, I was thinking of trying to make something from this recipe book," you said, holding up the book as if it were a lifeline. Your father raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to the book and then back to you. "What's on the menu, sweetie?" he asked, his tone dripping with amusement. You frantically scanned the pages, your mind racing as you tried to come up with something, anything, to say. "I, uh, I was thinking of making... pasta?" you ventured, hoping that it sounded convincing.

Your father's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, his expression a mixture of amusement and indulgence. "Pasta sounds good, sweetie, but how about we just order a pizza instead? I'm not really in the mood for cooking tonight." He sauntered over to the phone, his movements relaxed and casual, and began to dial a number from memory. You felt a wave of relief wash over you, followed closely by a twinge of guilt. You had been so caught up in your own anxiety about cooking that you hadn't even considered the possibility of ordering out.

As your father continued to order the pizza, you couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over you. You had narrowly avoided having to cook, and the prospect of spending the rest of the evening in a state of culinary-induced anxiety had been lifted. Your father's voice was a soothing murmur in the background as he chatted with the person on the other end of the line, discussing toppings and delivery times. Just as he was about to hang up, you heard the sound of the front door opening. Your heart skipped a beat as you turned to see your son, or rather, your mother in your body.