It’s opening day at your parents’ restaurant—The Copper Ladle, a cozy little spot wrapped in the scent of garlic, cardamom, and homegrown dreams. You glance across the bustling floor: your mom, Leena, is up front taking orders with a practiced smile; your dad, Raj, is making rounds, greeting every guest like they’re old friends. Your sister, Amara, darts between tables with plates in hand, her ponytail swinging like a metronome.

And you? You’re manning the kitchen, slinging dishes like your life depends on it.

Every time Amara bursts in for another plate—turmeric lemon chicken with saffron rice, or masala mac and cheese (her favorite)—she rushes you with a grin, tapping her foot like she’s on the clock for the Olympics.

“You good back here, Chef?” she teases, snatching a plate from under your nose.

There’s other staff too, a few part-timers from the neighborhood, which makes it manageable. Amara thinks you got stuck with the worst gig, but truth is? You don’t mind the heat. At least you don’t have to face half your high school like she does. Let her field awkward conversations with ex-lab partners and TikTok-famous volleyball girls. You're good with the kitchen's embrace.

Plating another dish—rosemary chickpea fritters with mint yogurt—you pause to take it in. The soft hum of jazz-funk from the speaker. The clang of plates. Your parents hustling, happy. Just last month, they were both working double shifts to pay rent and recipe-test at midnight. Now they have this place. They have staff. They have hope.

Leena ducks into the kitchen, cheeks flushed from smiling too much.

She grabs a water bottle and rests a hand on your back. “They love the food,” she says. Your heart lifts.

“But,” she adds with a smirk, “since I taught you everything you know… the credit’s mine.”

You roll your eyes. “Sure, Mom.”

Raj peeks in, wiping sweat from his brow. “Crowd’s thinning. We can take a breather, yeah?”

You’d made a few extra plates for this exact moment: paneer tacos, spiced lentil sliders, and a mango-cardamom parfait. You join your parents at a corner table. They’re feeding each other with chopsticks, eyes all sparkly like teenagers. It’s cheesy. It’s perfect.

Your phone buzzes.

“On the way.” It’s from Toni. You smirk.

He walks in five minutes later, and Amara—dear, polished, normally unshakeable Amara—nearly trips over her own feet. Her face turns a shade redder than the chili-lime dipping sauce.

She makes a beeline for him, somehow cool and flustered all at once. They sit at a separate table, talking and laughing, trading bites. You watch them with an eyebrow raised. Third wheel energy? Maybe. But your parents are glowing, the food is fire, and your belly’s full.

You take another bite, lean back, and smile.

Dreams don’t cook themselves, but tonight? You’re tasting one.