The Mac & Cheese and the Word That Broke Me
After the stillbirth, food stopped tasting like anything. Eating became mechanical — until I found one thing I could tolerate: a cheap frozen mac and cheese with powdered cheese. Garbage, really. But it was the only thing that didn’t make me nauseous.
I labeled it in the freezer.
Then I looked Violet in the eye.
“Please don’t touch this,” I said. “It’s the only thing I can eat right now.”
Two days later, I opened the freezer.
It was gone.
The empty silver tray sat in the trash, cheese residue dried on the edges like proof of betrayal.
By the time Victor came home, my anger had calcified.
“She ate it,” I said, without greeting. “The one thing I asked her not to touch.”
He shrugged. “Ruby, it’s just food. She’s pregnant. She probably needed it.”
