My Daughter Cast Me Aside, So I Cut Ties With Her

I worked as the head chef at my daughter's restaurant, earning only a thousand dollars a month for living expenses.

The business was booming—customers came in waves, and soon our little place became famous all over town.

One evening after work, my apprentice made me a small plate of peanuts as a snack. My son-in-law happened to see it, and his expression immediately darkened.

I quickly explained, "Calum bought it himself. You can check the surveillance footage if you want."

But Michael ignored me completely. Instead, he turned to my daughter and said in a sarcastic tone, "You can guard against outsiders day and night, but how do you guard against thieves in your own home?"

My daughter, Eliza, looked embarrassed. "Dad just likes peanuts. It's just one plate—he didn't take anything else..."

Before she could finish, my in-law—her mother-in-law—interjected sharply, "That's not the right attitude. We run a small business here. How can we afford to let people eat for free? Today it's peanuts, tomorrow it might be money. You married into our family, so you should think for our family's sake. If it really doesn't work out, just change the chef."

My daughter turned to me with an uneasy look. "Dad... maybe just apologize and let it go? No need to make things bigger than they are."

She didn't even believe her own father.

My chest tightened with anger. I slammed the cutlery down. "Fine! Do as your mother-in-law says—get another chef!"

——

As I ripped off my chef's hat, I caught the flicker of reproach in my daughter's eyes. "Dad, must you make things so difficult for me? Can't you think about my situation for once?"

Her words chilled me to the core.

I was once a national banquet chef—a man who had served dishes to state leaders. Now, I was reduced to working in a small-town diner, living on a meager allowance of a thousand dollars a month.

They were too stingy to use quality ingredients, so I paid out of my own pocket—over ten thousand a month—to make sure the food met my standards. Even my apprentice’s living expenses come out of my own pocket.

When the assistants and kitchen helpers threatened to strike last time because of the low wages, I secretly paid them from my savings just to keep the place running.

And now they said I wasn't thinking of my daughter?

My son-in-law, Michael, curled his lip and said with a fake concern, "Dad, you make a mistake and can't even take a little criticism? You're getting more and more unreasonable."

"Exactly," his mother chimed in. "Quitting over a few words—is that responsible? Can't you act like an adult?"

Of course, she knew perfectly well that hiring a chef like me outside would cost a fortune. Even in a small county, the starting salary is seven to eight thousand dollars a month.

Someone like me—a former national banquet chef from the capital—the going rate starts at twenty thousand.

So when she said, ‘If it really doesn’t work, change the chef,’ it was just a way to threaten and control me.

But I wasn't one to bow my head. I snorted coldly. "I've lived my whole life upright and honest. I've never been insulted like this. You want another chef? Fine. I'll go back to where I came from."

I could no longer serve such a bunch of ungrateful wolves.

My apprentice immediately spoke up for me.

“My master has always told me not to take a single thing from the restaurant,” he said. “I bought those peanuts with my own money. If you don’t believe me, check the surveillance footage!”

But before he could finish, Michael shot him a vicious glare. "Who asked you to speak? The cameras are broken—you think we don't know? You used that as an excuse to steal, didn't you?"

His mother added with a sneer, "It's not even a big deal. Just admit you were wrong like your daughter said and stop lying. You're only making yourselves look worse."

My apprentice fell silent, speechless.

I was shaking with rage, humiliated beyond words. My voice trembled as I snapped, "Tell me—do you think I can't afford a plate of peanuts?"

I slammed the counter and glared at them. "And another thing—yes, I'm Eliza's father. Even if I did eat a plate of peanuts, so what? Do I not deserve that much?"

My words silenced the room.

Michael and his mother exchanged uneasy glances and turned toward my daughter, waiting for her to speak.

I looked at her too—my only child, the one I had raised, clothed, and fed, never once letting her suffer.