I’d prepared five portions on Sunday and taken one to work on Monday.
When I came home that night, the other four were gone.
I stood in the kitchen in my coat, staring into the refrigerator.
Kayla came out of her room.
She looked at the open fridge, then at me.
I didn’t even have to say her name.
“Honestly?” she said. “You eat way too much anyway. Might do you good to stay HUNGRY for a bit.”
I couldn’t believe what I’d heard.
“What?”
She rolled her eyes.
Then, she went back into her room and shut the door.
I stood there long enough that the refrigerator started beeping at me.
That was the moment something changed.
It wasn’t about chicken anymore.
It wasn’t even about money, although the money mattered.
I worked too hard to come home hungry because someone else had decided my grocery budget belonged to her.
But what bothered me most was how every conversation ended.
My memory was the problem.
My appetite was the problem.
My “need to start conflict” was the problem.
There was no version of asking that worked.
So I didn’t ask her again.
The next morning, I went to the store before my shift.
