Eighteen months old, but the child in her arms didn’t look like a toddler. His limbs were thin, his stomach tight and swollen, his head too large for his body. He stared at the sink, making a weak, exhausted sound—not crying, just… pleading.
“Please,” Grace whispered. “Laura, please. He’s so hungry. He didn’t mean it. Please, just let him have the bread. I’ll give him mine.”
Laura spun, rage twisting her face. “I said no!” She lifted the spatula. “Another word and you go in the closet again. Do you hear me?”
Grace flinched and turned her body, shielding Noah.
The disposal stopped.
“Laura,” I said.
She froze. Then turned slowly.
For a split second, the anger was still there. Then her face smoothed, her smile snapped into place.
“Daniel! You’re home early!” she laughed, stepping toward me. “You scared me. I wasn’t expecting you—”
“Don’t,” I said, stepping back.
I walked past her and knelt in front of Grace.
“I’m here,” I whispered.
She looked at me like she wasn’t sure I was real.
I took Noah into my arms. He weighed nothing. His skin felt cold.
“Oh, Daniel,” Laura said lightly, “don’t pick him up. He’s sick. Stomach bug. Doctor said toast and water. That’s why I was throwing the food away.”