My first short story in a long time.

Sheila clutched the pack of matches in her hand and looked around - gleaming pots and pans, the latest appliances, a shiny granite kitchen counter and spotless floor tiles. She would miss it all so much. Sheila liked putting meals together and rated herself 7 on a scale of 10. Her friends loved her innovative cuisine. Problem was, her friends dropped in only occasionally. And her family was a different game altogether. She was tired of them telling her what to make and how to make it. The worst came from her husband whose self-professed culinary skills she had yet to experience.

For 13 years she had slaved and tried harder each time he made a "suggestion" which invariably began with "If only you had..." And she did exactly that the next time, waiting for approval which never came. What did come was another round of "If only you had..."

Things had disintegrated in the past week. Nothing had come out well. The new recipes had gone down the drain, literally, and not down anyone's throats, except her own. Her boys were getting almost as belligerent and critical as her husband. That really hurt. She wanted them to respect her. But perhaps her desperate need to be accepted did not exactly inspire respect.

The kerosene had smelt odd on her skin earlier, considering that high-end perfumes were her sole indulgence. But perfumes couldn't do what the kerosene would. And yet, when she opened the box and plucked out a match to end it once and for all, it seemed all wrong. She darted into the bathroom for a quick shower, dumped her clothes in the washing machine, and put away the can...

***

The blaze had died down. The firemen were rolling up their hoses. Sheila's husband stood in front of their house, shell-shocked at the scene. "I don't know how the gas could have leaked. I'm so sorry," she sobbed. She really was. Sheila had turned that house into a home and given it her all. And got nothing in return.

"It's okay," said her husband. "Thank God the fire brigade came as soon as they did. Or else we could have lost the entire house."

"What will we do now?" she asked, gazing at the remains of her kitchen.

He sighed. "Maybe we could stay with your parents for a couple of months until we can rebuild this part of the house? I hate your mother's cooking, but what can we do?" Sheila looked into his eyes fearfully.

"It's alright," he assured her, patting her shoulder. "Think of it as an extended vacation."

Sheila smiled hesitantly. Bingo.

Note: This is my first attempt at writing fiction in more than a decade. If anybody has any suggestions to improve it, I will be more than grateful. Thank you.