In response, my son hands me a scrap of paper. "Tuna, little mayo, OJ."
He eats, quiet little chews.
"Lot of homework?" I aim for breezy but get anxious.
He sips some orange juice and then writes on another scrap: "YES".
I should tell him enough already, like she used to on her okay days.
He takes his plate up to the sink. He will be short like her. Water drips into bits of pulp.