His eyes flicked to the empty chair, then back to his empty hands. “I don’t have much,” he said, and the sentence landed like a stone in the pit of my stomach. It held the entire story Emma hadn’t told me yet.
We sat down to eat at four. The table was a carefully constructed image of abundance, the kind of spread people post online as proof of their happiness. The turkey was golden, the mashed potatoes were far too buttery—because butter is my love language when I’m scared—and the table was crowded with bowls and plates.
Lucas sat at the end of the table, his back ramrod straight, his hands in his lap. He waited. I noticed it immediately. The rest of us reached for things—the salt, the bread basket, a serving spoon—without a second thought. Lucas didn’t move a muscle until Mark finally said, “Go ahead, man. Dig in.”
He took one thin slice of turkey, placing it on his plate with the precision of a surgeon. He ate in quiet, rapid bites that were completely at odds with the calm he was trying to project. And he kept drinking water. One glass, then two, then three. Not because he was thirsty. Because water fills the empty spaces that food can’t.
Halfway through dinner, I pushed the heavy bowl of potatoes closer to him. “Take as much as you want, really.”
Lucas froze, the spoon hovering over his plate. He looked like I’d just offered him something dangerous. Then, his eyes darted to Emma. It was a glance so quick I almost missed it. Emma gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Permission.
He took another spoonful. His hand shook.
