The evening settled the same way it always does.
The table was already laid out when I walked in. Two bowls of stew sat steaming, the surface glistening with red oil. Bread was set beside them, torn into uneven pieces, like it was done without much care.
The room felt smaller tonight.
Or maybe I was just noticing it more.
Nia sat across from her mother, her back straight, her hands resting on her lap. She did not touch the food.
Her mother stood beside her with a spoon.
I had seen this before.
Too many times.
She lifted the spoon slowly, the stew thick and heavy on it, oil dripping back into the bowl in slow, red threads. She brought it to her mouth, opened it wide, took it in, and chewed.
The sound was wet.
Then she pulled the spoon away again, the food half-crushed, strings of saliva stretching between her lips and the metal.
Then she turned to Nia and held it out.
"Eat."
But Nia did not move.
Her fingers curled slightly against her lap, her shoulders tight.
"I said eat," she repeated.
"I can't," Nia said, not loud nor defiant, but desperate.
I had seen all this before.
I remember sitting where I am now, watching this same thing unfold. I remember the disgust rising in my throat, the words I forced out.
"She's not a child. She can eat on her own."
I remember the way her mother looked at me then.
Not angry, but certain.
"I can't live like this anymore."
The words pulled me back.
And something shifted.
Those were her words, but it did not sound like her.
It sounded closer.
Much closer.
Her mother's grip tightened slightly on her shoulder.
"Because I love you," she said, her voice trembling at the edges but holding firm. "Because no one else will take care of you. I will do anything to protect you."
I was still sitting where I was.
Watching Nia in front of me.
Her mother was beside her.
But the spoon extended.
Then…
The spoon was in front of my mouth.
Close enough that I could see the oil dripping at the edge.
I did not remember moving.
I did not remember…
My breath caught.
I leaned back slightly.
"Wait," I said, but my voice sounded smaller now.
"I said eat."
"I'm not a child," the voice said.
And this time, I heard it clearly.
But it was not coming from across the table.
It was coming from me.
My lips parted slightly.
I felt something twist in my chest. "I can't breathe."
I looked down.
I realized I had been sitting still.
My hands were not moving. They were exactly where I placed them, still on my thighs.
And for some reason, I had been chewing.
Like I was finishing something already in my mouth.
I exhaled sharply.
I know I have not been feeding myself.
"No," I said quietly, pushing my chair back slightly.
"You can't keep doing this. She's grown," I heard Nia say.
The words felt familiar as they left her mouth.
"She's old enough to eat by herself."
I had said it then.
I remember that.
"No, I can't…"
The words came again.
I lifted my head.
Nia was still sitting across from her mother.
Still untouched.
Her mother turned to look at me.
And something about that look, there was no surprise, nor anger.
Only recognition.
And I forgot what I was about to say next.
"You understand, don't you?" she asked quietly.
But the words settled wrongly.
"You always have."
I shook my head slightly, but the motion felt delayed, like I was catching up to myself.
"No," I said. "I don't…"
But my jaw tightened again. Even as I tried to speak, there was another chew.
I looked up at Nia. "I'm not a child," I heard her say.
Her voice shook now.
Barely holding.
"I'm not a child," I heard again.
And my lips parted.
"I'm not a child," I repeated.
Silence followed immediately.
Nia's head turned slightly.
Her eyes landed on me.
Her mother exhaled softly in frustration.
"You say that now," she murmured. "But when the world gets tough… when it takes and takes…" Her voice lowered.
"You come back."
I shook my head.
I saw the spoon was closer now.
Closer than it should be.
The smell of the stew filled my nose, thick and suffocating.
I could hear breathing.
It was mine.
"Eat."
The word was softer now.
Not directed across the table.
Directed here.
I blinked as the room tilted slightly.
Her mother's gaze sharpened.
Then another chew.
My throat tightened as I swallowed again.
"When you're here," Nia said suddenly.
Her voice cut through the tension in the room.
I looked at her.
"She loosens her grip a little."
Her eyes did not leave mine.
"But when you leave…"
She stopped.
Just for a second.
And in that second, I felt the space between us was wrong.
"She feeds me harder."
The words settled heavily.
For a moment, a very small moment,
I was not sure
who she was talking about.
I did not have the faintest idea what was going on.
And the worst part…
I was not sure I wanted to know.
—And the mouth spoke not for itself, yet the hand delivered, and the child ate of what the mother had first consumed.