Lucas didn’t move until my husband said, “Go ahead, man. Dig in.”
Lucas nodded once, small.
Then he took a piece of turkey like he was taking a test.
One slice. Thin. He placed it carefully on his plate and started eating in quiet, fast bites that didn’t match the calm he was trying to project.
He didn’t talk much.
When my husband asked him about school, Lucas said, “It’s fine, sir.”
When I asked what he was studying, he said, “Just general stuff.”
Emma kept glancing at him like she was monitoring his heartbeat.
And Lucas—Lucas kept drinking water.
One glass. Two. Three.
Not because he was thirsty.
Because water makes food last longer.
Because water fills the space food can’t.
Halfway through dinner, I pushed the bowl of potatoes closer to him. “Take as much as you want.”
Lucas froze.
Like I’d offered him something dangerous.
Then he looked at Emma. Just a quick glance.
Emma nodded, almost imperceptibly, like she was giving him permission to be human.
So Lucas took another spoonful.
His hand shook a little.
I watched it, and I felt something old and hot rise in my chest.
Not pity.
Anger.
The kind that doesn’t know where to land because the target is too big.
Because you can’t yell at “the economy” or “the system” or “the cost of living.”
So you yell at your ground beef.
You yell at your electric bill.
You yell at your kid for bringing someone hungry into your kitchen.
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