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She chews.Swallows.

“Well, at least it’s better than your eggs.”

The look she gives me after says everything:That’s it?That’s your big move?

And for a second, I want to hit her.

I don’t.

Instead, I feed her another.This one colder.Slipperier.Closer to a dare than a meal.

“You want to speak?”I say.“Eat first.”

She raises an eyebrow like I’ve asked her to bark.But she doesn’t resist.

“Swallow it.”

She obeys.

Not like it bothers her.

Like a woman who knows exactly how much dignity she can trade without losing the game.

When the bowl’s nearly empty, I wipe my fingers on a cloth I didn’t offer her.Then I lean in—closer than I’ve ever been.

“I want to tell you a story.”

She offers no reaction, just stares.

“Munchausen by proxy has a signature,” I say.“Your sister’s wasn’t the first I’ve seen.”

I watch her face.

“My mother had it.She was good.The best.Oxygen tanks, needles, seizure drills.A medical chart on the fridge like it was a calendar.I was her miracle.”

I pause—not for effect.Just because some memories still taste like oxygen deprivation.

“She used to inject me with an EpiPen in the middle of the night.Said I was having an allergic reaction.Said it made me easier to love.”

Her expression doesn’t shift.Just cool interest.The kind reserved for other people’s pain.

“She poured bleach on the floor once.Told the neighbors I’d tried to drink it, when in reality she made me.Said it broke her heart.Smiled while they consoled her.”

I expect a response.She gives me nothing.

Not pity.Not horror.

Just silence.

“I grew up eating scraps,” I say.“Not because we were poor.Because my mother liked the way people stared when she said I had ‘appetite issues.’”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

I laugh.Once.Sharp.Unplanned.

She smiles.The way people do before pulling the trigger.Like she’s heard better lies.Lived worse truths.

I reach forward.Grip her jaw.Press my thumb along her throat—not to choke.Just to make her think I might.