Chapter 13: Learning To Eat Without Asking
The bread rolls were in the same basket as always, on the dark wood table where the lamp made a warm circle of light. Dad had put them out while he was making dinner and he didn't lock anything. He didn't say anything about them either. I kept looking at them while my plate was already in front of me.
Caleb had already taken one. He tore it open and the steam came out. Dad was at the stove with his sleeves pushed up, his tie loosened, humming a little under his breath. I watched his hands. I watched the white paneled doors to the kitchen to make sure they stayed open.
I didn't ask. I had been taught to ask and to wait to be told no. My hand hovered over the basket and then pulled back. My stomach made a noise and I stared at the cream chair across from me until Dad turned around.
"You can have one, baby, if you want it," he said. He didn't look upset. He just said it like it was normal.
I reached again. My fingers closed around the roll. It was warm and soft and a little floury on top. I picked it up fast and set it on the edge of my plate and then I froze with my hands in my lap, waiting. I waited for the voice that used to come from behind me. I waited for someone to take the plate away. I held my breath so I wouldn't be too loud.
Nothing happened. The lamp kept humming. Dad kept stirring the pot. I looked down at the roll and my eyes stung a little, but I didn't cry.
Dad noticed I hadn't eaten it. He came over and sat down next to me at the table instead of standing. He didn't reach for my plate. He sat at my level, his knees bumped against the table leg.
"You don't have to ask me anymore to eat what is on the table," he said quietly. "If you're hungry, you eat. If you want seconds, you have seconds. Okay?"
I nodded but I didn't move. He didn't push.
He tore his own roll in half. "I'm gonna have half now," he said. "You tell me when you're ready and you can have yours however you want. With butter or plain."
He gave me a choice and then he waited. That was new. Before, there was only one right answer and I always got it wrong. Now he left a little space and didn't fill it. I breathed out and picked up the roll. I didn't ask for butter. I just took a bite. The bread was soft in the middle and chewy on the outside. I chewed and swallowed and my shoulders came down a little.
Caleb watched me. He smiled at me with his mouth full and said, "You got the big one."
I smiled back, just a little. Dad saw it and his face softened.
Later that week, Dad started sitting with us for the whole dinner. Not cooking and checking his phone, not standing. He sat in the chair at the head of the dark wood table where the light from the lamp hit his face. He put our plates down at the same time. He asked Caleb about his spelling test and asked me about the picture I'd drawn in kindergarten.
We had chicken and rice and green beans. There was a bowl of apples in the middle of the table that hadn't been there before. I kept looking at it like it might disappear. Dad didn't comment on how much I ate or how fast. When I slowed down halfway through, he said, "You good? You want more or you done?" And when I said I was done, he said, "Okay, baby, good job listening to your tummy."
Caleb talked the whole time about his new sneakers and how his teacher let him feed the class fish. Dad laughed. I laughed too, without thinking about it. It was the first dinner in a long time where nobody talked about who took what or who didn't deserve what. The plates were just plates. The food was just food.
I reached for another spoonful of rice without asking. My hand didn't shake that time.
That night after we cleared the plates, I went back to the kitchen and opened the cabinet myself. I just wanted to see if it would open. It did. The cereal boxes were there. The bread was there. Nothing was locked. Dad was drying a glass behind me and he didn't say anything. He just let me look.
May you like
I closed the cabinet and came back to the table and sat down. The warm light was still on. My spot at the table was still there. I realized I hadn't been checking the door the whole time we'd been eating.
I wasn't fixed. I still woke up sometimes and checked the kitchen before I believed it. But that night, I believed it a little more. The roll was still in my stomach, and nobody had taken it away.
