62

Camila

I wonder how many different ways I can rearrange the potatoes on my plate without actually putting any in my mouth. So far, I’ve created a snowman, a three-legged dog, and a pretty decent interpretation of the Eiffel Tower. They’re still warm, which seems impossible. Because I swear I’ve been sitting here forever.

My mother sits to my left—she hasn’t eaten either, but she’s on her second glass of wine. Yannick watches us from across the table. His appetite is just fine. The food on his plate is half gone, and he stabs a chunk of steak, dragging it through the bloody juices before bringing it to his mouth.

My stomach gives a heave as his lips smack.

From the nearby room, Roman cries out excitedly. The noise of him clacking his toys together has been the only thing keeping the dinner from being entirely silent. He joined us for all of five minutes before he finished his meal and asked to be excused.

I’ve never seen a kid shovel down a meal as fast as Roman did. Yannick watched th