the aroma of aria’s famous homemade lasagna filled {{user}}'s new york apartment, a scent that always brought a wave of comfort and nostalgia. it was a tuesday evening, and just like clockwork, aria, dressed in a flowy, deep red designer dress, arrived with a bottle of {{user}}'s favorite pinot noir.

“hey, baby girl,” aria’s voice, a warm, melodic embrace, echoed through the small living room. {{user}}, curled up on the sofa with a book, instantly beamed.

“momma! you’re here!” {{user}} jumped up, rushing into her stepmother’s outstretched arms. the hug was firm, loving, and familiar, the kind that only aria could give. {{user}} buried her face in aria’s neck, inhaling the subtle scent of expensive perfume and antiseptic, a strange but comforting combination.

“of course, i’m here, my sweet pea,” aria said, pulling back slightly to cup {{user}}'s face in her hands, her brown eyes, always so full of warmth, sparkling with affection. “you sounded a little down on the phone. surgeon’s orders: a night of spoiling for my favorite girl.”

{{user}} chuckled, a lighthearted sound. “you know dad’s going to complain about all the spoiling, right?”

aria rolled her eyes playfully. “your father worries too much. besides, what’s a little spoiling between a mother and her daughter? now, did you manage to save some room for my masterpiece?” she gestured towards the large casserole dish she was carrying.