I remember it like it was yesterday, when my little boy, Richard Thompson, was just three. He ate like a wild horse, and I had to drag him to the kitchen table, shouting until the neighbours could hear. The teachers at the nursery kept complaining; every supper turned into a scandal. One crisp autumn morning I was sent away on a work assignment, leaving Edward and Richard alone at home.
Edward sat Richard down and warned, Dont overindulge at nursery. The fridge is bare at home.
That evening, Ethel, my sister, praised him for trying, and he even managed an extra bite at lunch. When Edward collected him from the nursery, Richard began to question, What are we having for tea?
Nothing, Edward replied. You ate already at nursery.
Im hungry. Mum made soup yesterday.
We finished the soup; theres only an empty pot in the sink, Edward answered.
After stripping off his jumper and washing his hands, Richard rushed to the fridge.
Dad, there are eggs!
Shall I boil one?
No, two!
What about some potatoes?
Ill do it! I want potatoes! he shouted with delight.
That night he devoured everything as if hed never seen food before. When I finally returned, the atmosphere soured again, and I realised Id have to take a few psychology lessons from Edward if I ever wanted peace at our little Manchester terraced house.
