“Eat the dinner I made for you,” her mom said, and her tone was dangerous.

She didn’t have a fork to eat with. She couldn’t cut it, and she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to eat it if she did cut it.

She—

Her mom’s hand found the back of her neck. Her face was pushed down onto the plate, into the creamy chicken whatever.

“We said we wouldn’t discipline her physically, Irene.”

Her grip tightened at the back of Kanzi’s neck. “What do you want me to do, Julien? It wasn’t a cheap or easy dinner to put together.”

“I know,” he said.

Kanzi’s shoulders drew further together, and she huffed out a breath, the breath forming a briefly-lived trough in the runny cream at the bottom of the plate.

“My mother never cooked for me,” Mom said. “I had an au pair. I would have loved—loved—for my mom to put in that effort!”

With the second utterance of ‘loved’, her hand moved, moving Kanzi’s face with it. The movement brought face against the raised lip of the plate, making the far end of the plate come up. Food moved.

“Ungrateful.”

Another movement, face sliding against slick plate, another push against the lip at the edge of the plate, bringing the other end up.

This time, though, it came down sharply, striking the table. It cracked, and Kanzi felt a shock of pain at one side of her face.

Her mom released her.

“I can’t. I just can’t! I can’t!” her mother proclaimed.

“It’s fine. Plates can be replaced. If she doesn’t want to eat it hot she can eat it cold.”

“I didn’t work hard at it with the idea it would be eaten cold, Julien! What’s the point of introducing our daughter to a variety of cuisines if she’s going to throw it back in our faces like this?”

Kanzi’s face hurt. She pulled her face away from the broken plate, and looked down in bewilderment, because the dish had changed. It wasn’t just the fact that the plate had broken and the placemat below was visible. The dish had been a beige-yellow-brown before and now there was a shock of crimson running through it.

“Oh my god, Julien,” her mother said. “She’s bleeding all over the table.”

Kanzi flinched as her dad’s chair scraped. Her mom flopped down into her chair while her dad approached. With a brusque movement, he turned her face up so he could see. With her napkin, he wiped away what she figured was the worst of the vomit-food. The napkin was crimson when he pulled it away, which made her heart leap in her chest.

She’d never bled before. She’d been grabbed hard enough that she’d had bruises, but mostly it had been shouting.

“Take care of it,” her mom said.