called Nia back and asked whether Lila was in immediate danger. Nia said she was standing in the kitchen and crying, but nobody had struck her. Martin told Nia not to start an argument with her mother. He said he would come to the house and make sure the children were heard. He had been at a nonprofit board meeting downtown and was still wearing the navy suit he kept for formal events.
Just after six, I parked outside our house with the lemon cookies on the passenger seat. I opened the front door without knocking and heard Vivian speaking to Lila.
“You already had your dinner in the kitchen,” she told Lila. “Don't embarrass me by pretending you're hungry.”
Lila stood at the table's empty place, apparently summoned to carry away a serving bowl. Her face was streaked with tears. Brandon was bent over his food. Nia had stopped moving altogether, her fork suspended above the plate. There was roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans in front of the other children. A full plate sat in the center of the table where an adult might have served herself. Lila had nothing. I set the cookies on the entryway cabinet. For one brief, terrible moment I was eleven again, standing in my father's kitchen while Vivian reminded me that I should be grateful for what I got. Then Lila looked at me and I was forty-one, and this was my house, and she was my child.
“What's going on?” I asked.
Vivian turned so quickly that her hand struck the back of a chair. Her expression shifted from anger to surprise and then into the bright, practiced smile I remembered from childhood. “Elias! You're home early. We were just finishing up. Lila was being a little difficult about—”
“Lila,” I said gently, “have you eaten dinner?”
She looked toward Vivian before answering. That glance told me more than any accusation could have. “I had some bread,” she whispered.
“Bread and what?”
“A little potato.”
“Where is your plate?”
She pointed to the kitchen. Vivian made an impatient sound, but I held up my hand. Not because I wanted to silence her, but because I needed my daughter to learn that she could finish a sentence without asking another adult's permission. “Show me,” I said. I followed Lila into the kitchen. On the corner of the counter was a small plate holding two dry crusts and a smear of cold potato. I stared at it long enough to hear the refrigerator motor click on. When I turned around, Lila was studying my face, waiting to see whether I would decide that she had exaggerated.
“Did you ask for chicken?” I said.
She nodded. “She said Brandon earned this dinner.”
“Did you do something wrong?”
“I don't know,” she answered. “I washed the pans. I didn't complain.”
I had spent three years teaching Lila that her mother's death was not her fault, and now she was wondering whether being hungry was evidence of bad behavior. I went back into the dining room, picked up the untouched plate of chicken and potatoes from the middle of the table, and placed it in front of her chair. I pulled the chair out. “Sit down, sweetheart. Eat your dinner.” My hands were shaking, and I made myself speak softly. “You never have to earn a place at this table.”