“I send money home every month,” I said slowly. “A lot of money. My mom is here to take care of you. There’s food in this house. So why are you eating this?”
Emily pressed her lips together. For a few seconds, she said nothing.
Then a tear slipped down her cheek.
“Because…” she whispered, “that’s all they let me eat.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“What…?”
She closed her eyes. “Your mom says after childbirth, I shouldn’t eat too much. She says if I eat good food, my milk will be ‘too strong’ for the baby.”
My mind went blank.
“So she keeps the good food,” Emily continued, her voice shaking. “She says it’s for you… because you work hard. And for herself… because she’s older.”
My throat tightened. “And you?”
Emily glanced at the bowl. “Sometimes… I get the leftovers.”
I looked down at the food again.
Then something hit me.
Every time I called home, my mother said the same thing:
“Your wife is doing great. She eats well. Gets plenty of rest.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“How long has this been happening?” I asked.
Emily hesitated. “Since I came home from the hospital.”
A month.
An entire month.
A month where I thought she was being cared for.
A month where my mother took my money.
A month where my wife ate scraps.
I clenched my fists. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She looked up at me, fear in her eyes.
“Because… she’s your mother.”
That hurt more than anything.
She wasn’t afraid of hunger.
She was afraid of coming between us.
I stood up slowly. “Where is she?”
“At Mrs. Thompson’s house… talking with the neighbors.”
I grabbed my jacket. “Stay here.”
“What are you going to do?”
I looked at her. “Fix this.”
Two houses down, I could already hear laughter from the backyard. A group of women sat around a table with coffee cups. My mom was right in the middle of them, laughing like nothing was wrong.
When she saw me, her smile faded. “Jake? Why are you home so early?”
“Come with me,” I said. “We need to talk.”
My tone made everyone go quiet.
We walked home in silence.
As soon as we stepped into the kitchen, Emily stood up, head lowered.
My mother’s eyes landed on the bowl.
For a split second, her expression shifted—but then she smiled.
“Oh, that?” she said lightly. “That was for the cat.”
My anger flared. “Then why was my wife eating it?”
She crossed her arms. “Because she’s stubborn. She keeps eating things she shouldn’t after giving birth.”
“Things she shouldn’t?” I pointed at the bowl. “This?”