Mommy’s hand fell on my shoulder. “Put it back, Teddy.”

“But it’s not real,” I said. “It’s just wooden. I could keep it in the house.”

“It is time for lunch,” she said. “Come.”

She tied a napkin around my neck and handed me two small jars with blue-and-white labels—one of puréed apples, one of carrots—and a spoon. I imagined that eyes were on us, although they probably weren’t. Around us other kids were eating hot dogs and sandwiches. Mommy saw me look.

“Those things are full of fat and preservatives,” she said. “Our lunch is nutritionally complete. All the vitamins you need are in these jars. And it is inexpensive.” She spoke in her nursing voice, which was a little deeper than her regular voice, the consonants more clipped. Mommy looked after sick kids in her job at the hospital. She knew what she was talking about. So you didn’t argue with the nurse voice. Daddy was between jobs. Like it was a dark gap he fell into, and now he couldn’t climb out. He ate his prunes and rice pudding without a word. The jars looked tiny in his large brown hands. He took out his coffee Thermos.

Nearby, a baby was being fed by an impatient red woman. The label was blue and white. With a cold stab of horror I saw that the baby was eating the same creamed rice as my father. “Put it away,” I said to Daddy. “People will see!”

Mommy looked at me, but said nothing. “Finish your lunch,” she told him gently.

When we were done Mommy put the jars away neatly in the cooler. “You know where I am from, Teddy,” she said.

“Locronan,” I said, “which is in Brittany. Which is in France.” That was all I knew. Mommy never spoke of that place.