“I’m hungry,” Hannah said.
“You’re probably hungry.
And your father gave me until eight.”
Victor almost smiled.
Almost.
Mrs.
Alvarez brought in the food: roast chicken, browned potatoes, glazed carrots, still warm despite everything that had happened.
Hannah did not make four perfect plates.
She set the serving dishes in the middle of the table.
“You choose what goes on your plate,” she said.
“But choose something.”
Oliver narrowed his eyes.
“What if I only choose potatoes?”
“Then tonight you eat potatoes.”
Victor started to speak.
Hannah looked at him.
He stopped.
Oliver took three potatoes.
Noah took one slice of chicken and immediately announced that it looked suspicious.
“Then inspect it,” Hannah said.
He poked it with his fork.
Mason took nothing.
Theo reached for a carrot.
His brothers stared at him as though he had betrayed the union.
Theo stared back.
“What?”
Then he bit it.
Hannah said nothing.
That mattered.
No applause.
No exaggerated praise.
No adult turning one bite of food into a ceremony.
Theo chewed, swallowed, and reached for another.
Noah tried his chicken.
Oliver ate half a potato.
Mason remained rigid.
At 7:31, he pushed his chair backward.
“I’m done.”
“You haven’t started,” Hannah said.
“I don’t care.”
“You can sit without eating.”
His eyes flashed.
“Dad said eating.”
Victor watched from the end of the table.
Mason knew exactly where the weak point was.
If he refused food, Hannah failed the test.
If Hannah forced him, he could explode and make her look like every other adult who had entered the room believing control was the same thing as care.
Hannah pulled out the chair beside him and sat.
Mason glared.
“You’re going to lose.”
“Maybe.”
“You need the job.”
“Yes.”
“You said your kid needs you.”
“He does.”
“Then make me eat.”
