Page 116 of How To Not Need You

I try a third time. “Tilly! Food!”

Nothing.

Ben glances towards the hallway. “She in her room?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “Hold on.”

I walk down the hallway. The floorboards creak beneath my feet. Tilly’s door is still closed. I knock softly.

“Tilly? Dinner’s ready.”

A pause. Then, muffled through the door: “I’m not hungry.”

I put my forehead on her door, feeling like the biggest failure.

“You need to eat, Bug.”

Silence for a long beat. Long enough that I start to wonder if she’s fallen asleep. Then, quieter: “Leave my bowl outside.”

I move to stand upright, unsure of what to do. I can’t help this gaping hole that seems to be my chest. I am not mad at her, I understand that she must be scared or hurt as well, feeling let down by the adults around her. The ache is more from being shut out by someone who usually runs towards you with open arms.

“Tilly.”

“Please.”

The word is so small and sad. A five-year-old setting a boundary with the only vocabulary she has.

I move back to the kitchen and grab a third plate. Ben watches me spoon some rice onto it.

“Thought she said wasn’t eating.”

“She said I could leave a bowl by her door.” I add two spring rolls, some chicken and a handful of crackers.

Ben reaches towards the bag. I slap his hand away.

“Jesus.”

“They’re hers.”

“You’ve become very territorial about rice crackers.”

“I’ve had a difficult weekend.”

As I turn away, I notice something. Hades is still in there with her. His food bowl is untouched in the kitchen. His water dish is full. He hasn’t emerged to complain, to demand, to complete his usual evening ritual of dramatic starvation.

He’s chosen her room. Weird cat.

Ben is already seated at the table when I get back, chopsticks in hand, attacking a spring roll with intensity that should concern me if I wasn’t aware of his diet from the past three days. He glances up as I sit and points his chopstick in the vague direction os Tilly’s room.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“She’s mad at me.”

“What does she have to be mad about? She’s five.”

“Exactly.” I pick up my own chopsticks. “She’s never been mad at me before. Not like this. She gets frustrated. She has tantrums. Normal kid stuff. But this?” I gesture towards the hallway. “This is different. This is more.”

Ben considers this. Chews. Swallows. Takes a sip of his soft drink.