The hospital food arrived at noon.
A nurse set the tray on the bedside table rice porridge, soft tofu, a small cup of broth and their mother looked at it the way someone looks at something they have no intention of touching.
"Ma." Leo pulled his chair closer. "Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"You had surgery six days ago. Eat."
She turned her head toward the window. "It smells like cardboard."
"It's porridge."
"Cardboard porridge."
Lila, sitting cross-legged on the other chair with her phone in her lap, pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.
Leo picked up the spoon and held it out.
His mother looked at it. Then at him.
The look was familiar the particular expression she'd been giving him since he was seven years old and refusing to finish his vegetables.
Like she was deciding whether this was a battle worth having.
"One spoonful," Leo said. "Then tell me it's terrible."
A pause.
She took the spoon.
