For twenty-five years, Doris expressed love through her cooking. Her kitchen was the heartbeat of her home, filled with aromas of stews and bread that carried generations of tradition. Every Sunday, her family gathered around her table, where she served food and affection in equal measure.

Even after her children left home, Doris continued cooking, maintaining the rhythm that gave her life purpose. Her husband, Alan, often worked late, but she always had a warm meal waiting — her way of caring. Gradually, though, she noticed strange changes: leftovers disappearing too quickly, meals vanishing overnight. At first, she blamed herself for forgetfulness, but the unease grew.

Continues…