Sam didn’t hesitate for a second. She crossed the kitchen, followed by a girl her own age, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing a hoodie too thick for the season, the sleeves rolled up to her hands. She clutched the straps of an old purple backpack as if it were the only sturdy thing within reach.
“Mom, Lizie is eating with us.”
She said it the way she did with things she’d already decided on: no questions, no requests. Just a fact, a statement.
I had a knife in my hand, and dinner was ready for three.
The girl—Lizie—didn’t look up. Her gaze remained fixed on the linoleum. Her sneakers were worn at the toes. And when she turned slightly, I could see the outline of her ribs through the thin fabric of her T-shirt, beneath her open hoodie.
She looked like someone who desperately wished she were small enough not to cause any trouble.
“Hi,” I said, trying to make my voice warmer than my thoughts were at that moment. “Have a plate, love.”
“Thanks,” she murmured. The words barely reached the edge of the table.
She ate with the meticulous precision of someone who has learned not to take more than she is allowed.
I watched her, pretending not to see her.
Lizie didn’t eat like starving people. She measured. A spoonful of rice, carefully measured. A single piece of chicken. Two carrots placed beside it. She looked up at the slightest noise—the clinking of forks, the creaking of chairs—the way you hold yourself up when you’re unsure of your safety.
Dan tried, as always.
“So, Lizie, how long have you been friends with Sam?”
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