Page 22 of In Somnis

“Morning,” I reply, taking the seat Renée pulls out for me beside Laura.

She squeezes my shoulder once before heading back toward the kitchen, and I settle in just as my niece barrels straight back into her argument, apparently uninterrupted by my arrival.

“But my phone is literally unusable, and everyone else at school has a better one.”

Marcus huffs into his coffee. “When your math grades improve, we can talk about a new one.”

“That’s not fair,” she shoots back immediately. “My phone has nothing to do with math.”

“It has to do with effort.” Marcus’ eyes are firm when they finally find hers.

“Uncle Paul!” Laura whines, turning toward me.

“Mm.” I give her a noncommittal shrug. “Listen to your dad.”

Renée returns and sets down stacks of pancakes, syrup, and neatly cut fruit on the table. I tried to help her the first few times I came for breakfast, but it always ended with her scolding me, so I stopped.

“Listen to your dad, huh?” She places a smaller plate in front of me last. Scrambled eggs with no garnish.

“Thank you.”

She nods, like making different food for me is nothing at all, and not a consideration she’s made twice a week for years now. I know she doesn’t understand me, but she lets me be what I am, and that has always mattered more than comprehension.

“You deserve kids of your own,” she says with a smile. “I’d love to tell them the same when they come whining to me.”

“The only thing screaming in my house is the espresso machine, and I prefer it that way.”

She rolls her eyes. “Kids give your life meaning. I don’t think an espresso machine does that.”

“The one I own does.”

“Paul…” Renée sighs.

“Hey, I’m not anti-kids,” I add quickly. “I’m just pro-peace, and I’d need a wife to make any in the first place.”

“You know we’d be fine if you brought a husband home, too, right?” Renée says lightly, glancing at my brother. “Right, Marcus?”

He doesn’t even look up from his coffee. “Doc could pull a gay man with that wardrobe for sure.”

“I’m straight but appreciate the vote of confidence, brother.”

Laura, who apparently couldn’t care less about my sexual preferences, peers at my plate. “I want scrambled eggs too.”

“No, you don’t,” Marcus warns. “You’re eating what’s on your plate.”

Something tight twists in my chest at the familiar tone, the echo of another voice so much like his, reprimanding me in this exact room.

“Eat what you’re given. Don’t be difficult. Stop making a fuss.”

I pick up my fork. When I was a kid, they called me a picky eater, like it was a personality flaw, and I was choosing to gag on textures, to feel my throat close around things my body rejected without permission. I know better now, but most people still don’t care.

Renée sits down in front of her own plate, changing the topic. “How’s work?”

“Good. Same as always,” I answer with a shrug, and it’s true enough.

She smiles, satisfied, and turns to Marcus, asking him the same question. He launches into an update on the company—new contracts, new equipment, numbers that matter to him—and I let my attention drift while I focus on the plate in front of me.

The eggs are safe, I know that. They smell fine. They’re perfectly yellowish beige and appear correct. Still, my stomach resists, tightening as I take bite after bite. I chew carefully, reminding myself that I’ve eaten this exact thing hundreds of times.