Chapter 2: The Little Boy Who Kept Count
I didn't sleep that night.
After everyone left, Imani went upstairs with my mother, and Caleb sat beside me at the kitchen island.
The birthday cake was still on the coffee table.
Ten candles lay scattered beside it.
A half-eaten slice sat on a plate near the sink.
I kept looking at it.
It was such a small thing.
A child asking for another piece of cake.
And somehow, that tiny request had opened a door I hadn't known existed.
"Caleb," I said gently, "I need you to tell me exactly what's been happening.""
He rubbed his palms against his pajama pants.
"Are you going to get mad?""
"Not at you.""
"Promise?""
I reached across the counter and held his little hand.
"I promise.""
He looked down.
"Tasha says I shouldn't tell you things that happen when you're working.""
My stomach tightened.
"Why?""
"She says grown-up problems make you tired.""
I took a slow breath.
"Did she tell you that?""
"Yes.""
"What happens when Imani eats something she's not supposed to?""
Caleb hesitated.
"She gets in trouble.""
"What kind of trouble?""
"She has to sit in the laundry room.""
I stared at him.
"The laundry room?""
He nodded.
"Sometimes until dinner.""
I felt something heavy settle in my chest.
"Does she get dinner afterward?""
"Sometimes.""
"What does that mean?""
Caleb's eyes filled.
"Sometimes Tasha says she's already had enough.""
I pushed my chair back.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I remembered something.
A few weeks earlier, Imani had asked me whether she could keep crackers in her bedroom.
I'd laughed and told her there was no need to hide food in the house.
She'd looked embarrassed and said she'd only been joking.
I had forgotten about it.
Now I wished I could go back and ask her why.
"Caleb, why didn't you tell me?""
He twisted his fingers together.
"I tried.""
"When?""
"Last month. In the car.""
I remembered that afternoon.
I'd picked him up from soccer practice. He'd started telling me something about Tasha being angry at Imani.
My phone had rung.
A contractor had discovered a serious structural problem at one of my sites, and I'd spent the next twenty minutes dealing with the issue.
When I finally looked back, Caleb was staring out the window.
I'd asked what he was saying.
He'd answered, "Nothing.""
"Why didn't you tell me again?""
Caleb shrugged.
"Tasha said you would think I was being mean because she's not my real mom.""
The words hit harder than I expected.
"Did she say that to you?""
"Yes.""
He wiped his nose with his sleeve.
"She said if you knew everything, you might send her away, and then we'd have nobody to take care of us when you're working.""
I pulled him into my arms.
He buried his face against my shoulder.
"I'm sorry, buddy.""
He began crying.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just the quiet, exhausted crying of a child who had been carrying something much too heavy.
I held him until his breathing settled.
Then I asked the question I was afraid to ask.
"Does she do this to you too?""
Caleb shook his head.
"Not usually.""
"Why not?""
He looked uncomfortable.
"Because I tell her I already ate.""
I frowned.
"What?""
"Sometimes I give Imani my food.""
He looked toward the stairs.
"If she doesn't get enough, I save her some.""
I closed my eyes.
My eight-year-old son had been sharing his dinner with his sister while I believed everything was fine.
"Where do you keep it?""
"In my room.""
"Show me.""
He led me upstairs.
His bedroom was small but tidy. Toy cars lined the shelf, and a soccer poster hung above his bed.
He walked to his closet and pulled out a plastic storage box.
Inside were several unopened packets of crackers, two cereal bars, and a small bag of pretzels.
"I keep them for Imani," he whispered.
I picked up one of the cereal bars.
"Where did you get these?""
"From school.""
"Does your teacher know?""
He shook his head.
"I put them in my backpack.""
I sat on the edge of his bed.
"Caleb, you shouldn't have to worry about whether your sister has food.""
He nodded.
"But if I don't, who will?""
I had no answer.
A floorboard creaked behind us.
We turned.
My mother stood in the doorway.
She had changed into her nightgown and was holding a glass of water.
"Marcus," she said softly.
"Can I talk to you?""
I followed her into the hallway.
She closed the bedroom door.
"I need to tell you something about Imani.""
"What?""
"Earlier, when I was helping her change out of her birthday dress, I noticed something.""
My pulse quickened.
"What did you notice?""
"She has been wearing the same cardigan almost every time I've seen her recently. Even when it was warm.""
"Why?""
"I asked her.""
My mother looked toward Caleb's bedroom.
"She said Tasha told her that if she kept eating, her clothes would stop fitting.""
I felt my jaw tighten.
"She said that to a ten-year-old?""
My mother nodded.
"There's something else. Imani asked me whether she could take home the leftover birthday cake.""
I frowned.
"Why?""
"She said she wanted to save some for breakfast.""
I looked at her.
"Breakfast?""
"Yes.""
My mother lowered her voice.
"Marcus, I don't think she was asking because she likes cake.""
For several seconds, the hallway seemed impossibly quiet.
Then my mother touched my arm.
"Don't confront Tasha without understanding how far this goes. The children are frightened.""
I nodded.
She was right.
I needed facts.
Not another argument.
Not another slammed door.
Facts.
The following morning, Tasha came downstairs at seven.
She wore a cream blouse and black trousers. Her hair was perfectly styled, and she carried a cup of coffee.
She looked completely ordinary.
"Morning," she said.
I was sitting at the kitchen island.
"Morning.""
She opened the refrigerator.
"Are the kids awake?""
"They're getting dressed.""
"Good. I need to take them to school early.""
I watched her prepare breakfast.
She put two slices of toast on Caleb's plate.
Then she placed one small piece in front of Imani.
My daughter looked at it.
"Can I have another?""
Tasha didn't even turn around.
"No.""
"But I'm hungry.""
"Then you should have eaten yesterday.""
I stood up.
"That's enough.""
Tasha turned.
"What's your problem now?""
"Give her another piece of toast.""
She stared at me.
"Marcus, we discussed this.""
"No, we didn't. Give her breakfast.""
"You're making her dependent on you.""
"She's ten years old.""
"And she needs boundaries.""
I walked to the counter, took two more slices of toast, and put them on Imani's plate.
"Eat, sweetheart.""
Imani looked at me.
Then at Tasha.
"Go ahead," I said.
She picked up a piece.
Tasha set her coffee down with a sharp click.
"You're making a huge mistake.""
"Then explain what mistake I'm making.""
She folded her arms.
"Children gain weight when parents let them eat whatever they want. I'm trying to teach her self-control.""
My mother entered the kitchen.
"Self-control isn't the same as going hungry, Tasha.""
Tasha's face changed.
"Excuse me?""
"You heard me.""
Tasha laughed coldly.
"Wonderful. So now everyone in this house is an expert on raising children.""
I stepped closer.
"This isn't about opinions. Caleb told me what's been happening.""
For the first time, Tasha looked genuinely uncomfortable.
"What did that little boy tell you?""
"Enough.""
"He's lying.""
"Then you shouldn't have any problem explaining the laundry room.""
Her coffee cup stopped halfway to her mouth.
"What?""
"Why does Imani have to sit in the laundry room when she's eaten something you don't approve of?""
Tasha glanced toward the children.
Then she lowered her voice.
"Not here.""
"Why not?""
"Because you're embarrassing me.""
I stared at her.
"You've been frightening my daughter, and you're worried about embarrassment?""
She placed her cup in the sink.
"I am not discussing this with you while your mother is listening.""
Then she picked up her purse.
"I'm going to work.""
She walked out.
The front door slammed.
Imani didn't touch her toast until my mother gently encouraged her.
I sat beside her.
"Sweetheart, can I ask you something?""
She nodded.
"Do you feel hungry often?""
She looked at the table.
"Sometimes.""
"How often?""
She rubbed the edge of her napkin.
"At school, mostly.""
"Does Tasha take your lunch?""
Imani nodded.
"Sometimes she says I don't need all of it.""
"What happens to the food?""
"She puts it in her bag.""
I felt my stomach turn.
"Why didn't you tell me?""
Imani's lower lip trembled.
"She said you'd be disappointed.""
"Why would I be disappointed?""
"Because you work so hard.""
I reached for her hand.
"Baby, listen to me. Nothing you need is too much trouble for me.""
She nodded.
But then she said something I would remember for the rest of my life.
"Can you make sure Caleb gets breakfast too? He gives me his sometimes.""
I looked across the table.
Caleb was pretending to concentrate on his cereal.
His shoulders were stiff.
I had spent years believing that providing a good home meant paying the mortgage, keeping the lights on, and making sure my children had everything they needed.
I had been so busy building a future that I hadn't noticed what was happening in the present.
That afternoon, I called my lawyer.
I also arranged an appointment with the children's pediatrician and contacted their school counselor.
I wasn't going to make accusations without evidence.
But I wasn't going to ignore my children's words either.
At 4:30 p.m., I returned home earlier than usual.
The house was quiet.
I heard the television upstairs.
Then I noticed something on the kitchen counter.
A small brown paper bag.
It was labeled with Imani's name.
Inside were three slices of bread and a bruised apple.
A sticky note was attached.
*Tomorrow's food. Don't eat it tonight.*
I picked it up.
There was another note beneath it.
This one was written in Tasha's handwriting.
*If Marcus asks, tell him you ate everything at school.*
I stood motionless.
Then I heard footsteps.
Imani appeared at the top of the stairs.
She was holding a small plastic container against her chest.
When she saw me, she froze.
"Daddy?""
I looked at the container.
"What do you have there, sweetheart?""
Her eyes filled with tears.
She slowly opened it.
Inside were two pieces of bread and a little bit of peanut butter.
"I was saving it," she whispered.
"For what?""
She looked down.
"For when I'm hungry at night.""
Before I could respond, the front door opened.
May you like
Tasha had come home.
And she wasn't alone.
