And I found the food, all of it, hidden.

Under her bed.

Tucked inside her backpack.

Stashed in the back of her closet.

My daughter had taken every piece of food I left out and hidden it, the way a person hides food when they have learned that it disappears.

I did not say a word; her therapist had warned me, explicitly, not to shame her.

I simply refilled the basket.

And the next day I refilled it again.