"Mommy, I'd rather eat Aunt Nora's leftovers every single day than eat your food ever again!"
Fine. If this father-son duo loved other people's scraps so much, they could eat them for the rest of their lives.
……
John was impossibly picky. Every single day I came up with something new, rotating through recipes, trying every trick in the book. I'd even signed up for a cooking class just for him.
None of it mattered. The second I set a plate in front of him, his face would scrunch up in disgust. He wouldn't even take one bite.
Every meal was a battle. I'd coax, beg, bribe, perform. It was exhausting. Soul-crushing.
I'd convinced myself that I'd simply been dealt a child who hated eating. That it was just how he was wired.
Then I saw him at Nora's table.
John's cheeks were stuffed so full they bulged. He was still chewing when his chopsticks darted out to grab more. The plates in front of him held the barest remains of someone else's dinner: a few wilted vegetable leaves, a fish picked clean to the bone, a handful of scrambled egg scraps.
Leftovers. Obviously leftovers.
And my son was devouring them like a starving animal.