“She’s eating with us.”
My daughter, Sam, didn’t ask.
She stated it.
I stood at the stove, already trying to make dinner stretch for four.
Now there were five.
The girl behind her looked like she wanted to vanish. Oversized hoodie in the heat. Shoes worn thin. Eyes glued to the floor.
“This is Lizie,” Sam said.
I forced a smile. “Hey… grab a plate.”
In my head, I adjusted portions.
Less meat.
More rice.
Maybe no one would notice.
Dinner was quiet.
My husband tried to talk. Lizie answered softly, barely audible.
But she ate.
Slow.
Careful.
Like every bite mattered.
She kept drinking water.
Every small sound made her tense.
When she left, I turned to Sam.
“You can’t just bring people home like that. We’re barely managing.”
“She didn’t eat all day.”
