I almost feel guilty finishing my own yogurt. I don't want it as badly as she does. My desire for yogurt has never held me captive, awaiting that sweet taste, while drool runs down the corners of my mouth and pools on the floor.
"Are you done yet, Mama?"
Her eyes search mine, hopeful, then return to the yogurt. Hope turns to pleading with every scrape of the spoon against the plastic container.
"Please, Mama?"
Another drop of drool.
I hold the cup out to her. Sweet strawberry-banana relief.
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