Chapter 4 - THE WOODEN VAULT
At the far end of the dining room stood a massive, antique wooden cabinet.
Its dark oak panels were intricately carved, standing like a monolith in the shadows of the room.
The mother approached it, her breathing ragged, her arms aching from the dead weight of the exhausted baby.
She reached out with her free hand.
Her fingers wrapped around the cold, brass handle of the cabinet door.
She pulled.
The heavy door groaned, the rusted hinges screaming against the movement.
The warm light from the chandelier spilled into the dark interior of the wooden vault.
The mother froze.
Her hand remained glued to the brass handle.
The air rushed out of her lungs in one long, silent exhale.
The baby stopped whimpering, her heavy eyelids drooping as she leaned her head against her mother’s collarbone.
Stacked neatly inside the cabinet were rows upon rows of glass jars.
Hundreds of them.
The glass caught the light, gleaming with a sickening, uniform perfection.
They were baby food jars.
Mashed bananas, pureed carrots, sweet potato, blended chicken and rice.
They were stacked four high, pushed all the way to the back of the deep oak shelves.
The metal lids were pristine, free of dust, arranged by color and expiration date.
It wasn't just a few forgotten meals.
It was a fortress of hoarded sustenance.
The mother’s knees buckled slightly.
She caught herself, leaning her shoulder heavily against the thick wooden frame of the cabinet.
Her mind fractured, unable to process the sheer volume of glass staring back at her.
They hadn't just forgotten to buy food.
They hadn't just been careless.
They had hidden it.
They had built a wall of glass and metal to keep a one-year-old child hungry.
She reached out with a trembling finger.
She tapped the metal lid of a sweet potato puree.
Clink.
The sound was tiny, sharp, and undeniably real.
The mother’s stomach violently revolted.
Bile burned the back of her throat, thick and acidic.
She swallowed it down, her jaw clenching so hard her teeth ground together with an audible squeak.
She looked back over her shoulder.
The elderly woman was still scraping gravy off her pearls.
The father was still staring at the floor, rubbing his burning cheek.
They weren't just neglecting her child.
They were playing a game of starvation.
The mother’s grip on the baby tightened until the child let out a soft groan of discomfort.
She loosened her arm, gently stroking the baby’s dirty blonde hair.
The sadness evaporating from her blood.
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It was being replaced by something cold, sharp, and metallic.
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