She’s in my lap, eating dinner like she owns the table—and maybe she does. GreenLee doesn’t ask for permission. She claims space. Claims me.
She forks another bite of pasta, eyes sharp, mouth soft. She eats what she wants, how she wants. No picking at lettuce or pretending she’s not hungry. She’s real. And I love that.
Lina’s sitting stiff beside us, still fuming from the seating arrangement. She thought she could play queen. Thought she could slide into the seat next to me and make a statement.
She didn’t expect GreenLee to sit in my seat. On me.
Lina leans forward, voice syrupy and sour. “You sure you want seconds, GreenLee? That dress is already working overtime.”
GreenLee doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look at her. Just takes another bite, slow and deliberate.
“I like having someth
