"It'll be ready in about five minutes," I said. "Just needs to steep."
She looked at the cup. Her smile faltered, something apologetic and uncomfortable entering her expression.
"Cole, that's really kind of you, but..." She hesitated, clearly not wanting to say what came next. "I can't really eat heavily processed food like this. My stomach doesn't handle it well at all. Gets really upset."
I stared at her blankly. "What?"
"It's been that way for years now. Since—" She waved a hand vaguely, not finishing the thought. "It's a whole thing. My system is just sensitive. Please don't feel bad about it."
"Emma—"
"Seriously, it's fine. I'll just make myself a plate of fruit and vegetables or something simple. I do it all the time. It's really not a problem."
She was injured because she'd tried to face her deepest fear for me, for Sarah. She was in real pain, stuck on crutches, unable to move freely in her own home. And I'd rolled up with my "dinner" like some clueless teenage boy who'd never learned to properly feed himself. Which, I realized with sickening clarity, was essentially true. I'd fed myself for fifteen years. I'd never learned to actually cook for anyone else.
"I'm sorry," I said, the words coming out thick and inadequate. "I should have... I didn't think."
"It's fine," she said quickly, already pivoting awkwardly on one foot toward the fridge. "Really, Cole. I'm honestly not that hungry anyway."
But I saw the way she looked at the noodle cup—not with disgust, but with something like wistful acceptance. Like she'dlearned long ago to make herself small and undemanding in these moments.
I watched her assemble a plate of carrot sticks and apple slices, hopping carefully between fridge and counter, every movement requiring extra effort and balance. Each awkward hop was a silent indictment of my thoughtlessness. She shouldn't have to be doing this. She shouldn't have to be gracious about going hungry in her own home because the man who'd promised to help her could only offer flavored Styrofoam and good intentions.
"Can I help with anything?" I asked uselessly.
"I've got it completely under control." She smiled over her shoulder, determined to make this easy on me. "Really. Sit down. Eat your noodles before they get soggy."
I sat. The noodles tasted like shame and cardboard.
Sarah slurped hers enthusiastically across the table, completely oblivious to the undercurrent of my self-recrimination. "These are so salty. I love salty things."
"They're... efficient," I managed weakly.
Emma settled into her chair across from us with her meager plate, a sad little arrangement of raw carrot sticks and apple slices. She nibbled a carrot with determined cheerfulness, clearly committed to making this feel normal.
"So how are the bees handling the cold snap?" she asked conversationally. "It got pretty chilly last night."
"They're clustered tight. Staying warm together."
"Sarah told me about the bee sweater concept." Emma smiled warmly at my niece. "I absolutely love that image. A whole hive just snuggling."
"Uncle C says they get grumpy in winter," Sarah added through a mouthful of noodles. "Really grumpy. Like him."
"I'm not grumpy."
"You're a little grumpy sometimes, Uncle C."
"That's just my face."
"Your face is grumpy then."
Emma laughed softly, and the sound eased something tight in my chest even as the guilt continued gnawing at me. She was being gracious. Warm. Engaged. Never once making me feel worse about the noodles.
But her graciousness was a spotlight, illuminating the vast empty space where my competence should have been.
"These apples are really good," Emma said, offering a slice to Sarah. "Want to try one?"
"Yes please!" Sarah crunched the slice happily. "Way better than Uncle C's apples."
