Young Jonathan slurped thin long rods of pasta into his mouth along with homemade tomato sauce. He stopped halfway and spit out the messy clump onto his plate.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’m not hungry,” he replied.
When he didn’t resume eating, I realized the situation was serious.
“Are you not feeling well?”
“It happened before. Remember?”
“What happened?” I asked, taking a forkful. Then, another.
Jonathan sat unwilling to budge.
“Mom, it’s together with the food on my plate. One of your hairs got twisted with my angel pasta. Can you please tie your hair back when you’re cooking?”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’m not hungry,” he replied.
When he didn’t resume eating, I realized the situation was serious.
“Are you not feeling well?”
“It happened before. Remember?”
“What happened?” I asked, taking a forkful. Then, another.
Jonathan sat unwilling to budge.
“Mom, it’s together with the food on my plate. One of your hairs got twisted with my angel pasta. Can you please tie your hair back when you’re cooking?”
