It was 7:12.
“I’m usually home before seven-thirty.”
She shrugged.
“I thought you had that project review.”
“Finished early.”
His eyes returned to his son.
“What’s going on?”
His wife lifted her fork.
“With what?”
The boy’s fingers tightened around the plate.
The father walked closer.
“Why are you standing there?”
His wife answered before the boy could.
“He already ate.”
The father looked at the plate.
“That?”
“He had something earlier.”
“What?”
His wife’s fork paused.
“Food.”
The answer was too vague.
He looked at his son.
“What did you eat?”
The boy glanced toward his stepmother.
Then looked down again.
The father felt something cold move through him.
“Hey.”
He softened his voice.
“Look at me.”
The boy did.
The father nearly forgot the question.
His son’s face looked thinner.
Not dramatically.
Not enough for a stranger to notice.
But fathers did not need dramatic changes.
The cheeks were narrower.
Dark circles beneath the eyes.
The hoodie sleeves seemed looser around the wrists.
When had that happened?
He had seen his son every morning.
Every night.
Or thought he had.
“How much did you eat today?”
His wife exhaled.
“Seriously?”
The father turned.
“What?”
“He’s been doing this all week.”
“Doing what?”
“Trying to make it look like I don’t feed him.”
The boy’s eyes widened.
“I didn’t—”
She pointed the fork at him.
“Don’t.”
The father stared.
The word was not loud.
That made it worse.
The boy stopped instantly.
His wife looked at her husband.
“He’s angry because I wouldn’t let him have cookies before dinner.”
The father looked back at the nearly empty plate.
“That doesn’t explain this.”
“He ate.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
The father moved toward the table.
There was an empty chair across from his wife.
His son’s usual place.
He pulled it back.
“Sit down.”
His wife’s foot shot under the table and shoved the chair sideways.
Not hard enough to knock it over.
Enough.
The father froze.
The boy froze too.
His wife looked up.
“He already ate.”
Something changed in the room.
Her own son stopped chewing.