One afternoon, I stopped by a pharmacy during my lunch break, and the pharmacist casually asked how Emily was doing and whether she was taking the supplements they had recommended. I answered yes without thinking, but on my way home, I realized I hadn’t actually seen any of those supplements. When I checked the kitchen cabinet that evening, there was nothing there. No vitamins, no protein powders, nothing I had been paying for.
When I asked my mother about it, she answered quickly, almost too quickly, saying Emily didn’t like them and that they made her nauseous. I nodded, even though something about her tone felt rehearsed. Emily stood nearby, silent, her hands folded tightly together.
A few days later, the baby’s pediatrician made a comment that stayed with me. He said our daughter was slightly underweight and gently asked whether Emily was eating enough, since breastfeeding required more calories. I glanced at Emily, but she only looked down. My mother answered for her again, saying Emily had become picky and they were working on it. The doctor nodded, but there was hesitation in his expression that I couldn’t ignore.
On the drive home, the silence in the car felt heavier than usual. I tried to convince myself it was just a phase, something temporary that would pass on its own, but the feeling didn’t go away.
The day everything shifted started with something ordinary. There was a power outage at work, and we were allowed to leave early. I remember feeling almost grateful, thinking it would be a good chance to surprise Emily. On the way home, I stopped at a grocery store and bought a box of imported milk that the doctor had recommended for her recovery. It was expensive, but I didn’t hesitate because I imagined the small smile it would bring to her face.
When I arrived home, the front door was slightly open, and the house was unnaturally quiet. I stepped inside, placed the milk on the table, and walked toward the kitchen. That was when I saw her.
Emily was sitting in the corner, hunched over a bowl, eating quickly and quietly, as if she didn’t want to be seen. Every few seconds, she glanced toward the door, and when she noticed me, she froze. The spoon slipped from her hand, and her face went pale.
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