I did not say anything.
I poured it down the drain, rinsed the cup, and set it back exactly where it had been, and my hands did not shake, which surprised me, because everything inside me had gone very cold and very fast.
At dinner that night, Mireille ladled soup into my bowl and rested her soft wrinkled hand over mine.
“Finish all of that, dear,” she said, in the gentlest voice.
“You’ve been looking so pale lately.
So tired.”