Seven Mothers: All My Seven Mothers Are Beautiful Valkyries?!

I opened my mouth, ready to argue; of course I was going to argue, but nothing came out. 

Her words landed squarely in the truth, leaving me momentarily stumped. I closed my mouth, scowling at the undeniable fact she just laid bare.

"See? Even you can't deny it." She chuckled softly. 

I sighed, defeated but grudgingly amused. Of course she'd have a point...She always did.

As I watched her straighten up, the memories started to flow—the scent of warm spices, the sizzle of sauces, the aroma of freshly baked bread filling our home when I was a kid. 

My mother was a godly cook, no question...She probably invented some of the most delicious dishes in existence when I was growing up, each one made with an effortless mastery that most chefs could only dream of, which could probably come from her being a Valkyrie or simply because she was something beyond a simple mortal.

But when it came to who was the absolute best in the kitchen? Well, I couldn't help but think, 'Yeah, that title probably belongs to me.'

It wasn't arrogance, just a quiet certainty. 

Maybe it was because I was the child of a literal Goddess—maybe that kind of lineage came with a knack for defying limits. But I'd noticed it early on, this strange pattern of pushing past boundaries as if they were suggestions rather than rules.

I remembered the first time I picked up a paintbrush in elementary school. My clumsy strokes quickly turned into something that caught the art teacher off guard. Or the time I tried skateboarding—one moment I was wobbling, barely staying upright, and a week later, I was pulling off tricks that left other kids gawking. 

It was like my mind and body didn't want to settle for just "learning." They absorbed, adapted, and then took things to the next level.

And cooking? That was no different.

When my mother told me cooking was an essential skill, one every person should know, especially since 'You can't live off instant noodles forever, Luca.' — I didn't think much of it at first. 

I was just a kid, fumbling with a knife and nearly crying over chopped onions. The basics felt daunting, and compared to her seamless grace in the kitchen, I was a lost cause.

But something clicked. Like always.

One day, I was struggling to fry an egg without breaking the yolk. The next, I was perfectly cutting vegetables with a precision that surprised even me. I devoured every bit of knowledge I could get my hands on—My mother's tips and tricks, old cookbooks with faded pages, and videos online where chefs made everything look deceptively easy. 

I experimented late into the night, the kitchen sometimes looking like a chaotic science lab, with flour-dusted counters and sauce-splattered walls.

And somewhere in the mess of burnt attempts and flour-covered failures, I started creating. Not just following recipes, but inventing them. Dishes that didn't exist, combinations of flavours that seemed absurd until they came together on the plate, singing in harmony.

I could still remember that one evening vividly—the look on Mom's face when I handed her a plate of pasta I'd just whipped up. Handmade tagliatelle tossed in a creamy sauce that blended roasted garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, a hint of saffron, and a drizzle of truffle oil. 

I didn't even know what to call it. All I knew was that it worked.

She took a bite, and for a moment, she froze. Her eyes widened, and she looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time. Her fork clattered onto the plate, and she covered her mouth. When she finally spoke, her voice was shaky. "Luca… this… this is incredible."

Her eyes shimmered with tears she tried to blink away, a rare vulnerability breaking through her usual confident demeanor. "You've gone and outdone me, haven't you?" She whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief.

In that moment, we both knew it. I had surpassed her. Not in a competitive way; it was more like I'd taken the torch she'd handed me and sprinted ahead with it.

"Guess I taught you too well, huh?" She wiped her eyes, then shook her head, smiling. 

"Nah, you just gave me the best foundation to build on, Mom." I'd just grinned at that time, a wave of pride swelling in my chest. 

"Well, don't think this gets you out of doing the dishes." Her laugh was warm and full of love. 

I chuckled at the memory, warmth spreading through me as I glanced over at her now. But no matter how far I went, I'd always be her student.

I then took a deep breath, my eyes flicking away for a moment as if grappling with some inner turmoil. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, my shoulders slumping dramatically. 

"Fine." I muttered, a reluctant grin forming at the corners of my lips. "I'll say it. Yes, I'm the better cook...No matter what the world says, no matter how many stars or awards they throw your way, I'm the true one at the top." I raised a hand to my forehead as if making a tragic confession. "The burden of being this talented is a heavy one."

I glanced at her through narrowed eyes, half expecting to see her bristle, to hear her pride snap like a taut wire. Anyone else who dared say such a thing in front of her would have been met with a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, her voice rising with fierce confidence, 'No one outdoes me in my kitchen.' 

Her pride as a chef was legendary, an unshakeable fortress built from years of passion, skill, and sweat.

But instead, she just stood there, arms crossed, a slow, proud smile blooming on her face. Her eyes softened, a warmth in them that only a mother could have. She looked at me like I was her masterpiece—a creation she was endlessly proud of.

For once, there was no need for her to refute it. No need to fight for her title. Because in her mind, my achievements were her achievements. My success was a reflection of everything she'd given me: her knowledge, her love, her endless patience. And if I'd surpassed her, it was only because she'd lifted me high enough to do so.

I then let out a long, drawn-out sigh, the weight of my so-called culinary crown pressing down on me. "Yeah, yeah, I accept the title, but…" I looked at the kitchen set, my voice trailing off. "...I'm really not in the mood to cook today."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, that familiar spark of expectation flickering. But before she could protest, I raised a hand. "You always say food made without love tastes terrible, right?" I shot her a sharp look. "So if I cook while feeling like this, it's gonna taste like cardboard, isn't it?"

Her lips pressed together in a pout, her arms crossing stubbornly over her chest. I could see the internal battle playing out in her eyes; she couldn't exactly argue with her own philosophy. 

Finally, she huffed, defeated. "Okay, fine. No cardboard dinner." Her eyes softened as she tilted her head. "But if you weren't planning to cook, what were you going to have for dinner then?...It's not like you can order food in this storm."

I pushed myself off the chair with a grunt and headed to the fridge. Swinging the door open, I reached in and pulled out a couple of sandwiches wrapped in butter paper. 

"I made these this morning." I said, placing them on the table with a dull thud. "Didn't have time to eat, so I'm having them now."

But before I could even get a proper word out, she snatched one of the sandwiches from the table with lightning speed. 

"Hey!" My eyes widened. 

She ignored me, unwrapping the parchment with a look of genuine delight, her fingers working with practiced grace. 

"Why didn't you say anything sooner, Luca?" Her voice was practically dripping with enthusiasm. "You could've just said that you already had some sandwiches ready...I would've been fine with this."

I stared at in dismay as my mother stared at the stale sandwich like she couldn't wait to devour on it, when just a second ago she insisted that I make her a seven course meal.