A month where my wife ate scraps.
I clenched my fists. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She looked up at me, fear in her eyes.
“Because… she’s your mother.”
That hurt more than anything.
She wasn’t afraid of hunger.
She was afraid of coming between us.
I stood up slowly. “Where is she?”
“At Mrs. Thompson’s house… talking with the neighbors.”
I grabbed my jacket. “Stay here.”
“What are you going to do?”
I looked at her. “Fix this.”
Two houses down, I could already hear laughter from the backyard. A group of women sat around a table with coffee cups. My mom was right in the middle of them, laughing like nothing was wrong.
When she saw me, her smile faded. “Jake? Why are you home so early?”
“Come with me,” I said. “We need to talk.”
My tone made everyone go quiet.
We walked home in silence.
As soon as we stepped into the kitchen, Emily stood up, head lowered.
My mother’s eyes landed on the bowl.
For a split second, her expression shifted—but then she smiled.
“Oh, that?” she said lightly. “That was for the cat.”
My anger flared. “Then why was my wife eating it?”
She crossed her arms. “Because she’s stubborn. She keeps eating things she shouldn’t after giving birth.”