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“You do it all the time.”
He unfolded the paper. My heart raced when I saw what was written there.
Meals. All in his careful handwriting.
“Last Sunday,” he read. “You threw away my meatballs and potatoes. The ones Mom made special.”
Ivy’s smile cracked.
“Wednesday before that… soup.
Thursday, the chicken. Two Saturdays ago, pasta.”
People shifted in their seats. Someone coughed awkwardly.
“You said they all went bad,” Noah continued.
“But they didn’t. You threw them out when they were still good. I checked the trash.”
“Sweetheart, you don’t understand…”
“I understand Mom gets sad when you do it.” Noah looked at me, then back at her. “If you don’t like her cooking, you shouldn’t come over anymore.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
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