My mother prepared the filling because our family recipe produced an out-of-this-world filling.
I took charge of layering the croissants, filling a whole tray in no time.
By the time Melody came home, all the croissants were already in the oven.
While the croissants baked, my mother shooed me out of the kitchen. I had no choice but to chat with my sister.
Fresh baked croissants were served at the table. Each of us got a plate.
Melody said happily, "Mom, I've been craving these. The croissants outside just can't compare to yours."
I nodded in agreement.
By the third croissant, I noticed something was off and spit it out.
These weren't fresh baked croissants—they were the frozen croissants I'd bought from the store and stored in the fridge.
I glanced at my sister. She was eating one after another, each one filled with the best filling.
I was certain I'd made enough croissants for three people.
Refusing to believe it, I kept eating. But by the time I finished the croissants on my plate, I hadn't found any fresh baked croissants.
My stomach felt uncomfortably full, but what hurt even more was my heart.