My husband’s five-year-old daughter had barely eaten since moving in with us, and at first I tried to convince myself it was nothing more than nerves or the normal resistance of a child uprooted from everything familiar. Every evening, I would sit across from her at the small wooden table in our Valencia apartment, watching the steam rise from plates I had prepared with care. “I’m sorry, Mom… I’m not hungry,” she would say softly, eyes fixed on the rim of her plate, as if looking up might cause something terrible to happen. Her voice was always polite, apologetic in a way that felt far too mature for a child her age. I told myself not to push, not to turn meals into battles. I smiled, nodded, and said it was fine, even as something inside me twisted with worry. Javier, my husband, brushed it off every time I mentioned it. “She’ll get used to it,” he said with a tired shrug. “She’s always been difficult with food.” Still, night after night, her plate remained untouched, and the silence at the table grew heavier. I tried different recipes, asked her what she liked, involved her in the kitchen, hoping curiosity might spark appetite. Nothing worked. She would sit perfectly still, hands folded, waiting for permission to leave the table, as if eating were not an option but a test she had already failed. That was when I began to realize this wasn’t stubbornness or stress. It was fear. Continue reading…
