Chapter 4
Chapter 4: A Bowl of Cold Soup by the Sink
When Gabriel forcefully pushed open the heavy double oak doors leading into the mansion's industrial kitchen, his world shattered into a hundred pieces.
The massive, gleaming stainless-steel kitchen, normally the busiest room in the house, was completely desolate, as all the chefs were stationed at the staging area outside the dining room.
And in the furthest corner, hidden behind rows of massive refrigerators humming a bleak mechanical drone, sat Doña Rosario.
She was sitting entirely alone at a tiny, rickety wooden table, one usually reserved for staff to chop vegetables. Right next to her was a large industrial sink overflowing with soapy water.
There was no warm candlelight. No silk tablecloth. No crystal glasses or silver cutlery.
In front of her, on the bare wooden surface, was a cheap white ceramic plate. On the plate was a hastily cut piece of bread, a carelessly folded paper napkin, and a bowl of soup that had gone completely cold, a thin layer of congealed fat forming on its surface.
She was wearing a frayed floral dress, with a thin cardigan draped over her shoulders. The cold, sterile white light from the fluorescent bulb beat down on her silver hair, highlighting a loneliness so profound it hurt to look at. She was slowly tearing off tiny pieces of bread, dipping them into the cold soup, eating in absolute silence.
Hearing the doors open, Doña Rosario startled and looked up. Seeing her son standing there in his luxurious suit, a flash of embarrassment crossed her face. She quickly dropped the piece of bread, wiped her mouth with the paper napkin, and tried to force a gentle, reassuring smile.
"Gabriel... my son. Happy birthday, my beautiful boy," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "What are you doing in here? The guests are waiting for you out there."
Gabriel stood paralyzed. He couldn't answer immediately. A bitter lump had lodged itself in his throat.
He looked at the pathetic plate of leftovers. He looked at the wobbly stool she was sitting on. He looked at his mother's old cardigan draped over her shoulders, as if she were freezing right inside her own son's house. The house he had built with the sole wish of letting her live like a queen.
He staggered forward.
"Who... Who brought you here?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice from breaking.
Rosario lowered her head, her trembling hands nervously rubbing the edge of the nonexistent tablecloth.
"No one brought me here, son. I came here voluntarily because... because it's quieter in here."
"Mom. Don't lie to me."
Gabriel's voice resonated, deep and heavy, echoing in the empty kitchen. That tone wasn't sadness. It was an absolute, unadulterated fury—a volcano on the verge of erupting.
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Rosario clutched the paper napkin tightly, her eyes dropping to hide her humiliation.
"Isabel said... she said the high-class guests might feel uncomfortable if I sat with them. That I wouldn't know how to use the silverware at such a formal table, and I would embarrass you. Patricia also said it would be best if I ate quietly in here, not bothering anyone. They are just protecting your image, Gabriel."
