“How was the spaghetti last night?” I ask, testing her. “Delicious,” she says, absentmindedly. I side-eye her. Just as I thought—she didn’t touch a goddamn bite. I grit my teeth but hold my tongue. She’s twenty-six years old. A fully functioning adult. She can survive on her own. Why do I fucking care? I don’t. But she is my responsibility, whether or not I like it.
