They ate and made small talk. Margaret laughed when expected.
When the soup bowl in front of her emptied, she did what felt natural—what she had done at her own table for decades.
“Andrew, dear,” she said gently, holding out the bowl, “may I have a little more? It’s delightful.”
The room froze.
Andrew stared as if she had spoken a foreign language.
“More?” he said.
Margaret blinked. “Just a little.”
A flicker crossed his face—annoyance, something sharper beneath it. He stood abruptly, grabbed the ladle, and before Margaret could lower her bowl, tipped it.
The soup spilled across her scalp, ran down her temples, burned behind her ears. She cried out—not loudly, but in surprise and pain.
“That’s enough!” Andrew snapped. “You’re always asking. Always needing. Do you know how much you take?”
