3: 3
The moon was already high before Mom came home with Florence.
The door opened and the laughter poured in ahead of them. Florence had a glowing headband on, all lit up, and one of those glow-stick wands from the concert in her hand, her little face flushed pink as she hummed a song she'd just learned.
Mom was smiling too, which didn't happen often, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes smoothed out, Florence's jacket in one hand and an empty popcorn bucket in the other.
"Did you have fun today?"
"Yeah! I want to go again next time!"
But in the next second, something seemed to yank hard at Mom's face, and it dropped cold all at once.
Florence leaned in, spotted the smear of cream on the floor at a glance, then looked back up at Mom's face.
There was a familiar, testing note in her voice.
"Mom, today is Beryl's birthday, after all… do you think she's holding a grudge against us?"
"But throwing the cake on the floor, that's wasting food. That's a merit deduction."
Mom lifted her eyes from the cream and stared coldly toward my bedroom. Still no sound from in there.
Then her voice filled, layer by layer, with disappointment and anger.
"I've really been too good to you."
"I dock you a few merits and you have the nerve to go on a hunger strike? Fine, if you've got the guts, keep not eating. See if you starve yourself to death!"
No one answered her.
She waited a few seconds, gave a cold snort, and turned away.
"Come on, Florence, no more sulking to watch. Mom will make you something good."
"Okay!"
Florence answered sweetly and followed her toward the kitchen.
As she passed the table, she lifted one little foot and gave the lemon slice that had rolled into the corner a small kick, then went skipping after Mom.
The living room went quiet again.
I crouched where I was, looking at the cream on the floor, then at the light coming on in the kitchen.
The pan started to sizzle, and the smell drifted out slowly, scrambled eggs and scallions, warm and rich, the smell of the living world.
I drifted to the kitchen doorway. Mom had her back to me, tossing the pan with quick, practiced flicks, Florence standing at her leg with her face turned up, waiting to be fed.
Mom glanced down at her, lifted a piece of egg, blew on it, and fed it into her mouth.
I leaned against the doorframe and watched, quietly.
Mom, do you know? Florence doesn't lose any merits for this piece of egg. She doesn't have to trade anyone else's merits for it either.
All she has to do is stand at your leg and tip her face up, and she gets it.
And me, I could kneel before the shrine and bow a hundred times and still not earn a single bite.
But saying all this now, it doesn't really mean anything anymore.
Mom lifted another piece of egg and set it, without thinking, in the empty bowl beside her.
I froze for a moment before it hit me. That one was set aside for me.
She'd told me to starve, and she still left me a share.
I suddenly wanted to laugh a little, and to cry a little.
Mom, thank you for saving me this meal.
But, forgive me.
I'm afraid I'll never get to eat your cooking again.
