The next morning, the sky hung gray and heavy.In the first-floor dining room, the long table was laid with a lavish breakfast spread.Black truffle omelets, creamy seafood chowder, French foie gras roulades, and freshly baked croissants.My soul hovered beside the table, staring hungrily at all that food.I hadn't eaten a proper meal in five full years.Early in my illness, my mother had taught herself to cook nutritious meals, coaxing me to eat one spoonful at a time.But later, when they grew tired of me vomiting on the carpet, they decided that "a bland diet is better for the nerves" and had the maid bring me nothing but a bowl of plain, unseasoned oatmeal each day.The truth was simpler: their patience had run out, and they didn't want to bother the chef with preparing anything special for me.Ethan, wearing a brand-new jacket, sat shoveling croissants into his mouth."Mom, Dad said I could pick a sports car from the garage and take it for a spin today."Jessica's waiting for me."
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