Dinner smelled of tomato sauce.
Mother placed the bowl on the table, her movements determined, almost harsh, as if each motion said: Enough now. The steam rose, briefly fogging her glasses, and she wiped the lenses with the back of her hand without taking her eyes off me.
Father sat down slowly, arms crossed, his gaze cool.
Tom chattered happily about his soccer practice, his voice the only sound without edges. His ball lay beside his chair, like a pet that could never be too far away.
I sat between it all – between voices, expectations, love and control.
"See?" Mother handed me the plate. The sauce smelled strong, tangy, red like an alarm.
"Eat. Now."
I reached for the fork. The handle felt slippery, my fingers trembling ever so slightly. I stabbed at the pasta, raised a bite to my mouth, put it in. The taste wasn't bad, but strange, as if metal were melting between my teeth. Every jaw muscle resisted.
