The table was set for
three, but only two
chairs scraped back. His
father carved the bread
with an old knife, each
slice deliberate, thick.
The boy stared at the
empty bowl across from
him. Steam curled from
the soup — chicken,
celery, the same recipe
every Sunday.
His father reached over
and filled the empty bowl
anyway. Set a spoon
beside it. Didn't say a
word.
They ate in the rhythm
of clinking ceramic and
the hum of the fridge.
The boy watched the
untouched soup cool, the
surface forming a thin,
pale skin.
At the end, his father
stood, lifted the full
bowl, and poured it back
into the pot. The ladle
clinked against the rim.
"She'll be back for the
next one."
The boy nodded, and the
kitchen held its breath.