The tone he used—soft and coaxing, as though speaking to a child—stung more than it should have. I kept my gaze fixed on the small bowl of food in front of me, the sadness in my chest growing heavier with each passing second.
There was a time when I didn’t mind the way Scott spoke to me. Back then, I found his care and attention comforting, even sweet. But now? Now it grated on me.
I didn’t want to be treated like a child anymore.
Ever since Jessica moved into this house, everything seemed to revolve around her, including the meals. The table was always filled with her favorite spicy foods that overwhelmed my palate.
I had grown up eating light, mild foods, and my stomach couldn’t handle anything too intense. Although we all sat at the same table from that day on, my meals were separate from theirs.
The sight of my small, plain bowl next to their vibrant, aromatic dishes only deepened the divide I felt between me and the rest of the household. It was as if the table itself mirrored my place in their world—apart, isolated, an afterthought.