Begin the story here.

Several days went by like this with me perched by her door and listening intently. Not once did she open the door to me. The kitchen utensils continued to be moved around. So I gave up on putting things back. It seemed easier somehow to let her have her way in this one thing. The door still stayed closed on me, but at least I knew where to find the colander. And then she stopped eating.

I set dinner on the table. Her favorite, lasagna from Stouffer’s because that’s Olivia likes best and a side of carrots because they are the only vegetable she will eat. Anything green has offended her untried taste buds for years. I stared at her for fifteen minutes. At first I was excited to see her, expecting to watch her gobble down each string of cheese twisting across the plate and each soft carrot with pride that I had fed my child.

“Olivia, eat up,” I prodded gently, with a smile on my face.

She picked up her fork and let it dangle in above the plate. Looking at up at me, I began to feel she was testing me. There was something malicious in her look, something mean. And with a sweep of her arm the plate crashed to the floor.

* This is part 15 of a longer story. There is more to come. Be ready.

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