THE warm golden light from the kitchen spilled onto the polished tile floor, carrying with it the scent of garlic butter and freshly baked bread. Orlanda moved gracefully between the stove and counter, humming softly to herself. Her hair was now tied up in a loose bun, a few tendrils framing her face as she stirred the pot with a slow, rhythmic motion.

She was almost done, the vegetables were perfectly steamed, the chicken rested on the counter after being drizzled with sauce, and the pasta had just been drained. She sprinkled in a pinch of herbs, her eyes shining with satisfaction. This was her space, her moment, and she...