I generally cook dinner for my family. My dad usually works around 12 hours a day, and other than my mom, I’m the only one in the house without a job. My mom is recovering from some surgeries, so I make dinner. It’s how I feel less guilty about being mentally broken and not supporting myself.
Last night I made French toast with syrup. Tonight I made meatballs and corn. My mind tells me there’s something really great about cooking food for others that I can’t/won’t eat. It feels selfless and giving. Maybe I’m just trying to justify it.
My mother sits next to me and says, “I ate wayyy too much.”
I smile, knowing I’ve had 582 calories today. Knowing I will have no more than 400 tomorrow. Knowing that each person ate more calories for dinner than I had all day.
It’s strange how I can feel so selfless and caring while preparing their food, and so smug and proud while they eat it. Perhaps I’m just a terrible person.