Chapter 2 The night that changed everything

POV: Naila (First Person)

Later that night, after I'd eaten too much custard and taken a long, quiet shower, I sat on the edge of the couch, robe draped over my knees, phone clutched in both hands.

The lights were low, the TV off. The only sound in the room was the gentle hum of our old ceiling fan spinning in uneven circles above me.

I hadn't made it.

No culinary school.

No job offers.

Nothing but a rolled-up certificate and a whole lot of guilt.

I looked at it again. The certificate.

It sat on the table beside a small candle, its gold lettering already smudged at the corner from my thumb. It said Bachelor of Science, Nutrition and Food Science-but right now, it felt like a polite rejection letter from the future.

"I'm sorry, Mum," I whispered into the dim room. "I really tried."

My voice cracked.

The tears came again-quiet this time, just streaks of warmth sliding down my cheeks.

I hated crying in front of her. She never made me feel bad about it, but still. She carried so much already. I didn't want to add my disappointment to her plate. Not when she'd already swallowed so many of her own.

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my robe and reached for my water. The glass was nearly empty, just like my hope.

Then-my phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

I blinked, startled.

KIKI – Video Call Incoming.

My chest jumped.

I wiped my face quickly and swiped to answer.

Her face lit up the screen, Seoul neon glowing behind her. She looked like a walking dream. Pink gloss. A sleek bun. A high-rise skyline behind her that looked like it belonged on a drama poster.

"Naila! Finally!" she said, breathless. "I've been trying you all day. Did you graduate or what?!"

I smiled weakly. "Yeah. I did."

She squinted at me. "Then why do you sound like your cat just died?"

I half-laughed, half-sniffled. "I just... I don't know," I said, trying to hold it together. "I didn't get into culinary school. No one offered me anything. I'm still here. Still broke. And Mum-she deserves more than this."

Her smile softened instantly. "Girl, you've always been too hard on yourself. You're the best cook I've ever known. Remember the birthday ramen you made for me? I still daydream about that."

I smiled a little more for real. "You cried."

"I sobbed," she said, dramatically. "It was spiritual. That egg? A blessing. The broth? Healing. I think I was reborn that night."

I laughed again, a tiny bit of the weight lifting. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm serious," she said, leaning closer to the camera, her voice dropping into a whisper. "And that's not why I'm calling."

She paused for effect.

"I've got a job offer for you."

I sat up straighter. "What?"

Kiki's eyes twinkled. "There's this super-wealthy client here in Seoul. Private estate. Major security. Their chef just quit. They're looking for someone discreet, creative, and skilled with intercontinental cuisine."

My heart stopped. "Wait-are you serious?"

"Dead serious. I sent them your plating photos and a short blurb. They want to offer you the job."

I blinked. "Doing what exactly?"

"Being their private chef."

I froze. "What's the pay?"

Kiki grinned. "Twenty thousand dollars a month. Flights covered. Live-in. Visa handled."

I nearly dropped the phone. "Kiki-"

She held up her hand. "No, it's not a scam. I've worked with their estate team before. Ultra-lowkey, very formal, very intense. But if you cook the way I know you do? You'll blow them away."

I looked around the living room.

The cracked tile. The secondhand furniture. My mother's framed photo on the shelf beside my father's old journal.

Twenty thousand.

That was more than five years of rent.

That was a bakery of our own.

That was sending Mum on the pilgrimage she always dreamed of.

That was real freedom.

I pressed a hand to my chest. "I don't know what to say."

Kiki smiled softly. "Say you're coming."

I didn't speak right away.

I thought about the little girl who used to cook pretend meals from crushed leaves and pebbles, handing them out to imaginary customers on our front porch. I thought about Dad, standing behind me in the kitchen, gently guiding my hands as I stirred a too-thick batter with too much pride.

I thought about the way my mom still watched me cook, like she was seeing the future unfold one onion slice at a time.

"I'm coming," I whispered.

As if on cue, the lights in the house flickered back on-like the universe itself was giving me permission.

From the corner, Mum's voice drifted in.

"Who was that?"

I didn't answer. I was still too stunned. She walked in, wiping her hands on her wrapper, just as the tears spilled again-this time from pure disbelief.

She saw my face, saw the tears, and froze.

"Naila?"

I stood slowly. "Mum..."

She blinked, anxious. "What is it?"

"I got a job offer."

Her brow creased. "Where?"

"In Seoul. South Korea. As a private chef."

There was a long pause. For a second, I thought she hadn't heard me.

Then-

She squealed like a little girl.

She rushed forward and threw her arms around me, dancing and laughing and crying all at once. "My daughter! Going to Korea! A real chef!"

I laughed through my tears, letting her spin me like a child again. My heart thumped wildly, half terrified, half elated.

She thought I'd end up helping her run a tiny canteen in the market.

Now I was flying halfway across the world.

We sat together for hours after that.

Making lists.

Googling Korean etiquette.

Watching cooking videos and imagining what the estate kitchen might look like.

At some point, I looked over and caught her holding one of Dad's aprons, the one with "Super Chef" embroidered crookedly at the chest. She was silent, her fingers tracing the faded stitching.

"He would've been so proud," I said softly.

She nodded, blinking quickly. "He always said you'd leave this place. That you'd make meals people would remember for life."

I leaned my head on her shoulder. "I wish he could see this."

"He does," she whispered.

Outside, the night was still. But inside our little house, the air buzzed with possibility.

My entire world had just shifted in a single phone call.

The cracked tiles didn't look as cracked anymore.

The walls felt brighter.

The silence felt like expectation, not emptiness.

For the first time in a long time...

I believed in a miracle.

And this time, I wasn't letting it pass me by. Without knowing the first step of achieving my goal I had already missed it.

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