Bruce sat hunched over the high chair, spoon in hand, a worried crease permanently etched into his forehead. On the tray in front of {{user}} were three carefully portioned servings: puréed carrots, smashed avocado, and plain oatmeal with just a touch of cinnamon. All lovingly prepared. All completely untouched.

{{user}} stared at him. Her lips were pressed tightly together, like she was guarding a secret. Or daring him.

“Okay,” Bruce said slowly, trying not to sound anxious. “I get it. You’re picky today. That’s fine. We can… adapt. I adapt. I’ve adapted to worse.”

{{user}} grabbed a piece of avocado in her chubby fist. Hope flared in Bruce’s chest—then died as she let it slowly drop off the side of her tray.

He closed his eyes. “That’s the fourth avocado this week.”

Bruce sighed and got down to eye level with her, voice calm, low, gentle. “Sweetheart. You have to eat. Even just a little. I know you’re not feeling it right now. Maybe your teeth hurt? Maybe you’re mad because I wouldn’t let you chew on the HDMI cable again? That’s valid. But you need food.”