“You will never eat burned scraps beside the stove while Samuel and I sit at this table.”
His voice came out harder than he intended.
Eliza recoiled slightly.
Grant closed his eyes.
Damn it.
When he opened them again, he spoke quietly.
“I’m not angry with you.”
She looked uncertain.
Grant continued.
“I’m angry at whatever made this seem normal.”
Her lips parted.
Nothing came.
He pointed toward the chair.
“Sit.”
She flinched again.
Grant caught himself.
“Would you sit with us?”
Different.
Her gaze moved from him to Samuel.
Samuel immediately pushed his cup slightly toward the empty place.
“We have three chairs.”
Eliza looked at the boy.
Something cracked in her expression.
Not completely.
A thin break.
She walked to the chair.
Sat on the very edge.
Her back straight.
Her hands folded in her lap.
Ready to leave.
Grant took another plate from the cupboard.
Samuel began moving food from his own plate.
Eliza stopped him.
“No, sweetheart.”
“You can have some.”
“You're growing.”
Samuel looked offended.
“So are you.”
Grant almost laughed.
Eliza looked at Samuel as if he had spoken in another language.
Grant divided the bacon.
Potatoes.
Beans.
Then placed a biscuit on her plate.
Eliza stared.
“One is enough.”
Grant stopped.
He had been reaching for a second.
“Do you want another?”
“No.”
Her answer came instantly.
He looked at her.
Eliza glanced away.
Grant said, “That's not the answer to the question I asked.”
She swallowed.
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize.”
Her shoulders tightened.
He slowed down.
“Do you want another biscuit?”
Eliza looked at the basket.
For three full seconds.
Then whispered:
“Yes.”
Grant placed one beside the first.
No comment.
No smile.
He returned to his chair.
They began eating.
Eliza lifted her fork.
Cut a small piece of potato.
Put it in her mouth.
She chewed.
Then stopped.
Her hand began to tremble.
Tears filled her eyes.
Samuel frowned.
“Does it taste bad?”
Eliza shook her head.
A tear rolled down her cheek.
“No.”
“Too salty?”
“No.”
“Then why are you crying?”
Grant looked at Samuel.
“Give her a moment.”
Eliza wiped her face.
“I'm sorry.”
Grant set down his fork.
“Eliza.”
“I don't usually cry.”
“I don't care if you do.”
Her chin trembled harder.
“That sounded rude.”
He almost smiled.
“It wasn't meant that way.”
She drew a breath.
Then another.
Samuel waited.
Children could be far more patient than adults when nobody taught them to fill silence.
Finally Eliza whispered:
“I know how to stay in my place.”
Grant's jaw tightened.
“No.”
She looked at him.
“Whoever taught you that was wrong.”
Her face broke.
She covered her mouth.