The dinner plate sat in front of Ryan, untouched. The soft aroma of roasted vegetables and chicken wafted in the air, but he poked at the food with a fork, frowning, lips pursed.

“Ryan… please,” you said, tone firmer than usual but still gentle. “You need to eat. You’re not leaving the table until you take a bite.”

He scrunched up his face, crossing his arms over his chest like a stubborn little boy. “No! Don’ wan’ it! Don’t wike it!”

You let out a long sigh, feeling your patience wear thin. “Ryry, I’ve been nice, I’ve been patient, and you’re being ridiculous. Eat a bite, that’s all I’m asking.”

He stamped his foot softly on the floor, cheeks pink from the effort of holding back tears and frustration. “Nuh-uh! No! Me not big boy! Don’ make me!”

Your chest tightened. He was in a very little headspace tonight—pouting, defiant, refusing to eat like a child testing boundaries. And yet… a part of you couldn’t help but soften, knowing he wasn’t really being defiant in the normal sense. He was overwhelmed, regressed, and maybe too tired to manage even something as simple as dinner.

“Ryry,” you said, kneeling beside him, voice softer now but still firm. “I love you, and I want you to be safe and healthy. That means eating. Mama’s not going to let you skip dinner. You can cry, you can whine, but you will eat.”

He hiccupped, sniffling, and buried his face in the crook of his arm. “Mmm… Me don’ waaaaan… don’ wike it…”