Victoria tried to force the plates back into Noah’s hands, he intervened and moved his son safely behind him.
/
Chapter 7 / 17
Chapter 7
Noah began carrying plates after the party.
At home.
One.
Two.
Whenever guests arrived.
I stopped him the first time.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping.”
That word.
Again.
“You don’t have to.”
He frowned.
“Victoria says family sits. Helpers carry.”
My chest tightened.
“And what are you?”
He thought.
“Helper?”
No.
Not because helping was beneath him.
Because he had learned service as evidence of not belonging.
I crouched.
“You can help because you want to.”
He listened.
“But helping doesn’t make you less family.”
He looked confused.
Good.
Three-year-olds should be confused by absurd adult hierarchy.
Then:
“Can I carry spoon?”
“Yes.”
He carried one spoon.
May you like
Proud.
Choice changed the action.
