She gave me a thoughtful look. “Maybe that’s why you should dream bigger—so you can choose something different for your future.” Then she broke into a gentle smile, her eyes warm. “Listen, you have real talent in the kitchen. You don’t just do what I tell you—you’re tasting the food, adjusting spices, noticing if the sauce is too thick or too thin. Not everyone has that instinct.”
Her words stuck with me for days. The next time I visited, Ms. Allen had a small notebook ready for me. “Write down the recipes that we try,” she suggested. “And if you come up with an idea, jot it down. You never know what might come of it.”
Over the years, things changed. My mom worked odd jobs, saving every spare dollar. We never became wealthy, but we had enough to keep us going. And my relationship with Ms. Allen continued to grow. I ended up babysitting Zara’s younger siblings on weekends. I helped Ms. Allen clean the kitchen after big family gatherings. Sometimes I would drop by with groceries if I found a good sale at the market.
One day, right after my sixteenth birthday, Ms. Allen pulled me aside and handed me a sealed envelope. I opened it to find a gift certificate for a culinary workshop in town—a workshop for teens interested in exploring cooking as a career. “I know it’s not something huge,” she said, “but I think you’ll really enjoy it. The workshop is with a local chef who teaches the basics of professional kitchens.”
My eyes filled with tears. I’d never been given something like this, never been told I had enough potential to learn from a real chef. I could barely get the words out to thank her. But Ms. Allen just smiled and waved her hand, like it was no big deal. “Just promise me you’ll show me everything you learn.”
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