Then Keith carried my plate over himself and served me almost the same, and put the spoon down, and said, “You need to eat.”

“I usually do.”

He did not laugh.

He stood there with the serving spoon in his hand, watching Noah pick up his fork, and I asked him, finally, why he was watching our son eat instead of eating his own dinner.

He put the spoon back in the dish and said he was making sure Noah had enough.

Then he sat down without serving himself at all.

The chicken dish stayed between us, nearly full.