Chapter 6: Pierogi Meltdown

Only mother-in-law didn’t touch her fork. She sat with her hands folded, lips pressed tight, like she was holding back a flood of words.

I hesitated, the bowl heavy in my hands, wondering if this tiny gesture could fix anything. I picked up a pierogi and brought it to her lips: “Mom worked so hard all morning—let your daughter-in-law feed you one. Thank you for taking care of me.” I even smiled, hoping for a break in the tension, but she clamped her mouth shut, jaw set like granite.

“What’s wrong? Mom, you don’t like pierogi? You made them yourself. You should at least taste one.”

Tanya said, “My mom loves pierogi the most. Mom, eat! It’s rare for her to show any gratitude—just enjoy it.”

Mother-in-law turned her face away: “I won’t eat. I have no appetite.”

Tanya was wolfing down pierogi, glaring at me over her bowl: “See how angry you’ve made my mom.”

She ate several in a row, probably too fast to taste anything. The others followed her lead, but soon, the mood started to shift. Marcus ate two and then frowned, staring into his bowl like it was a science experiment.

He spat them out onto the table: “What’s in this filling?”

A wet splat echoed as he dumped the mess onto his plate, nose wrinkling.

Sister-in-law spat hers out too: “Mine seems to have tissue paper and noodles in it.”

Brother-in-law spat out his: “There’s spaghetti in mine.”

Tanya bit down and—crunch!—

“Ugh! Gross!”

She spat it out: “How come there’s a bone?”

Marcus said, “Why is today’s pierogi filling so messy? The taste is weird—really hard to eat.”

Tanya kept spitting: “Not only is the filling bad, the wrapper tastes weird too, like there’s dirt in the dough. Are these really Mom’s handmade pierogi?”

I replied, “They really are her handmade pierogi.”

“Impossible! Mom’s skills are so good—how could they taste this bad?”

I smiled: “You’ll have to ask your mom. Funny, isn’t it? She made these pierogi herself, so why won’t she eat them?”

Mother-in-law suddenly burst into tears: “Natalie, if you didn’t want to eat pierogi, you could have just told me. I wouldn’t have made them. Why did you have to hurt me? What did you put in the filling and the flour?”

She actually wants to blame me? My anger flared, and I grew bold.

I picked up the bowl of pierogi and flung it at her.

“Splat!”

Mother-in-law was instantly covered, head to toe, in pierogi. The kitchen was suddenly silent, everyone staring in disbelief as sour cream dripped from her hair, and a single noodle slid down her cheek like a tear. Silence stretched, thick as gravy. Somewhere in the house, a phone buzzed—maybe another family text. And for the first time all day, nobody reached for it.