Page 38 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

Instead of forcing Lola into a highchair, Millie lifts her onto the booth bench and scoots in after her. I take the bench across from them.

Despite the unlikelihood of her joining in, I order Lola a meal off the kid’s menu, and when Millie smiles in approval, pride thickens my veins.

Lola pushes her plate away the second the waiter sets it on the table. I sit braced for the worst, but Millie picks it up and moves it to her other side, away from Lola, and continues as though nothing happened. A few minutes into the meal, Millie breaks off little pieces of her croissant and sets them on the edge of her plate. When Lola—who refuses to sit down—leans on Millie’s arm and glances at the small pieces a few times, I hold my breath.

With her lips in a tiny lopsided grin, Millie turns her attention to her drink.

Lola’s tiny hand shoots out. I stare in disbelief as the bread disappears into her mouth, but the moment it touches her tongue, she spits it out onto the table. Disappointment spears through me even as I marvel at her taking such a big step. She freezes with her eyes locked on the morsel as though she has no idea how it got there. Her tiny body shakes.

“Oops. No worries. A napkin will fix it,” Millie says.

She pulls a napkin from the dispenser, pinches up the croissant, and sets the napkin down in its place.

Lola’s eyes dart between the napkin and Millie’s face. When her nanny goes back to eating, she relaxes.

Millie cuts her orange slice into smaller pieces and nudges them toward the croissant crumbs. Lola catches me staring and moves away from Millie.

Our angel clears her throat and gives a pointed look to my plate. I avert my eyes but can’t focus on what I ordered as I pour all my effort into not staring at my daughter.

“How is your smoothie? Mine is delicious,” Millie asks.

I lift my eyes in time to see Lola scowling at the piece of orange in her grasp before dropping it without even trying it.

A fresh bit of croissant makes it into her mouth.

“Mr. O’Brian?” Millie asks.

I grunt in response.

“Your smoothie?”

Although she crinkles her nose uncertainly, Lola chews a few times before spitting the new piece onto the napkin.

Millie kicks me under the table. I jerk, mostly in surprise, but hiss as my shin throbs. She picks up her smoothie and gives the glass a little wave to drive home her point.

“Oh. Right. My smoothie.” I take a sip and hum my approval at the smooth banana-mango combination, not sure what I was expecting since Millie ordered it for me.

Except, now that I know she didn’t order it for me. She ordered it for Lola. The smooth texture and bright but not overly powerful flavor might pass her unwritten requirements.

With not-so-subtle hints, Millie directs me to place it near Lola.

“This is delicious. Want to try?”

Even though I address Millie, I place the glass in front of Lola. She looks at me like I lost my mind. I ignore her and pick up my fork.

As Millie and I pick at our food, Lola takes the straw and bends down. She pauses, looks between us, and leans back. Millie grabs her smoothie, I grab my soda, and we drink.

Lola dips toward the smoothie but chickens out at the last second. I suck to fill my straw then bite the portion in my mouth and swallow so I don’t choke.

Millie tugs the end of her straw above her smoothie and makes a slurping sound.

“Oops, sorry. It’s just so good,” she goads.

She wraps her lips around her straw again, and I curl my toes in my shoes to fight off the bombardment of filthy thoughts. Lola moves in my periphery. I swing my attention to her and catch her first sip. She swallows.

With my heart pounding in my throat and sandpaper scratching the back of my eyes, I watch as my daughter voluntarily ingests food for the first time in what feels like ages.

Despite all the scans and tests, doctors could never find anything wrong with her digestive system, but a few weeks after I started the table food journey with her, she stopped accepting anything. Mealtimes became a war zone. She screamed and cried and refused to even sit at the table.