I was sitting at the dining table crying over a slice of steak so small it looked like it had apologized before landing on my plate.
Ryan was across from me, eating like a man starring in a commercial for appetite, his plate loaded with steak, mashed potatoes, and garlic bread, with a cold soda sweating beside him.
I had raw vegetables, water, and the expression of a woman trying not to throw a fork at her marriage. The worst part was not even the food. It was how normal my husband acted while I sat there hungry in my own house.
He cut into another bite. “See? Portions. This is what discipline looks like.”
I looked down at my plate because if I looked at his face, something irreversible was going to happen.
After dinner, I washed the dishes, then took Kelly upstairs and fed her while she blinked up at me with that sleepy, milk-drunk expression. And that was when I started crying for real, because there is something especially painful about feeling hungry while you are feeding someone else.