said nothing.
That mattered too.
After breakfast, Sophie opened her backpack and removed the old notebook.
The one containing the page titled DAYS I GET DINNER.
Adrian had assumed it was gone.
She showed him a new page.
There were no checkmarks or Xs.
Instead she had drawn pictures.
Monday: spaghetti.
Tuesday: tacos.
Wednesday: soup with Maria.
Thursday: pancakes with Dad.
Friday had only a question mark.
Adrian smiled.
“What should we make tonight?”
Sophie considered the question very seriously.
“Pizza.”
“Delivery?”
She shook her head.
“We make it.”
“I don’t know how.”
For the first time in months, Sophie laughed without immediately looking over her shoulder.
“Then I’ll teach you.”
That evening, flour covered the kitchen counter.
The first pizza came out shaped like a boot.
The second burned around the edges.
Sophie declared the third perfect.
Adrian disagreed but ate two slices anyway.
The mansion was still enormous.
The chandeliers still sparkled.
His bank accounts had not changed enough for anyone outside the family to notice.
But the most important change was something money could never purchase.
At 7:14 that evening, Sophie walked into her own kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took what she needed without fear.
Adrian stood at the counter washing flour from his hands.
She glanced toward him automatically, as though expecting someone to tell her to put the food back.
He simply smiled.
Sophie smiled too.
Then she closed the refrigerator door and carried her plate upstairs.
For the first time in a very long while, nobody had to mark down whether she had been allowed to eat.
