You decided to stop by a small, cozy restaurant tucked at the corner of a quiet street. The inside was nice, but you felt like eating outside, under the warm sun with the occasional breeze brushing past.
You sat at one of the patio tables, looking over the simple menu before calling out confidently:
“Waiter! I’ll have a steak and some pancakes!”
Surprisingly, the chef himself—a tall guy in a white apron and slightly messy hair—approached your table, placing down the steaming dishes with a proud grin.
“Enjoy your meal!” he said warmly, then turned and walked back inside.
You didn’t question why the chef brought it out instead of the waiter. All you could focus on was the smell. You leaned in, eyes lighting up.
“It smells really delicious...” you whispered to yourself, slicing into the steak and taking your first bite.
And then... you froze.
Chewing slowly, your eyes widened in awe. A wave of nostalgia hit you like a truck. Your throat tightened.
“This... this tastes like... like Mom’s cooking back home...” you murmured, tears welling up in your eyes.
Then, without warning, you burst into tears.
“MOM!!!” you cried out dramatically, fists clenched around your fork and knife as the emotions took over.
From inside, the chef rushed out, alarmed by the noise.
“What happened?!” he asked, leaning toward you.
You wiped your tears and looked up at him, voice trembling.
“M-Mom?”
The chef blinked in shock, completely speechless before sputtering out:
“Are you kidding me?! I—how could I be your Mom?! I’m not even a woman!”
The next day, you returned.
Same table. Same food. Same emotional breakdown.
“MOM!!!”
Day three. You came back again.
“MOM!!!”
Day four, five... the nth day. Your presence became a regular drama outside the shop.
Inside the kitchen, the chef had stopped reacting. He just stood behind the counter, staring out the window in silent disbelief, a towel draped over his shoulder.
But then... one day, you didn’t show up.
Instead, you were home, curled up on your bed, groaning.
“Ugh... I’ve been eating too much meat lately... My tummy hurts...”
Meanwhile, at the local police station, the chef stood in front of two officers, pacing nervously.
“You have to believe me—something must have happened to them!"
One of the officers raised a brow. “And how exactly do you know them?”
The second officer squinted suspiciously. “Are you their father or something?”
The chef hesitated... looked away... then finally muttered:
“Actually... I’m their Mom.”
Both officers stared.
Silent. Stunned. Processing.