Chapter 6 - A New Beginning
Three months later, the sun was shining over the mountains as I stood in the stainless-steel commercial kitchen of my newly registered business: The Table by Catherine Vance.
I was wearing a sharp, custom white chef's jacket with my name embroidered in gold across the chest. My leg was completely healed—no brace, no pain, no crutches.
With Lisa working as my business manager, we had launched The Table as a high-end, boutique catering service specializing in exclusive private dinners and luxury corporate events.
Evelyn Thorne's VIP sponsor dinner had been an unqualified triumph.
The high-profile guests had raved about my four-course menu—seared duck breast with cherry-port reduction, wild mushroom risotto, and a dark chocolate lavender tart that had Evelyn practically hugging me in front of her wealthy peers.
Word of mouth spread like wildfire through Denver’s elite social circles. Within eight weeks, The Table was fully booked for the next six months.
I was making more money in a single weekend than I used to make in two months at my old office job. But more importantly, for the first time in my life, I felt valued. People weren't exploiting my talent—they were celebrating it, paying for it, and respecting it.
One Thursday afternoon, while prep-cooking for a weekend estate wedding, my phone rang.
I looked at the caller ID.
Dad.
I hadn't spoken to my father in nearly five months. I hesitated, wiping my hands on my apron, before sliding the green button.
"Hello, Dad."
There was a long silence on the line. I could hear the heavy, hesitant sound of his breathing.
"Catherine?" his voice sounded weak, stripped of the quiet authority he used to pretend to have. "Is that really you?"
"It's me, Dad."
"I... I saw the article in the Denver Food & Wine Journal," he said softly. "The photo of you in your chef's jacket. You look... happy."
"I am happy, Dad. I'm doing really well."
"That's wonderful," he whispered. "Catherine, I'm... I'm calling because..." He cleared his throat, sounding deeply embarrassed. "Your mother and I were wondering if you were coming home for Thanksgiving next week."
I felt a sudden, familiar tightening in my chest, but it was quickly replaced by a cool, unshakeable calm.
"Dad," I said steadily. "I'm catering a fifty-person Thanksgiving gala at the Governor's Mansion next week."
"Oh," he said, his voice deflating. "I see."
"And even if I weren't busy," I continued, "I wouldn't be coming home."
"Catherine, please," my father pleaded, his voice breaking. "Things have been terrible here since you left. Ryan... Ryan lost his job at Thorne Logistics entirely last month. He got into an argument with his supervisor. He's back living in the basement, refusing to look for work. Your mother is hysterical every day. We're fighting constantly."
I listened, but I felt no satisfaction in their misery—only a profound sense of relief that I was no longer there to absorb it.
"Ryan is thirty-three, Dad," I said softly. "He is the product of how you and Mom raised him. You enabled him, you protected him from consequences, and you sacrificed me to keep him happy. Now you have to live with the monster you built."
"Catherine, we're your parents!" he cried out. "We made mistakes, but we're family!"
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"Family doesn't force a daughter on a broken leg to cook for ten people while her brother drinks beer by the pool," I replied coldly. "I forgive you, Dad. But I will never let any of you drag me back into that house."
I hung up the phone and stepped back up to my prep station, picking up my chef's knife with steady, confident hands.
