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Y/n Knowles 18
Y/n POV
Everyone is already there when I walk into the kitchen.
Beyoncé is at the counter with a mug, scrolling through her phone. Solange is talking animatedly about something I don't catch. Mama Tina stands at the stove, humming softly. Blue is helping Rumi with juice while Sir bangs a spoon on the table like it's a drum.
Normal.
Like last night didn't crack the house open.
I hover near the doorway, then type quickly on my iPad and turn it toward them.
Good morning.
Mama Tina looks up first. Her face softens immediately. "Good morning, baby."
Beyoncé glances up next, offering a small smile. "Hey."
Solange nods. "Morning."
No tension.
No lecture.
No replay.
Weird
I nod once and move toward the microwave, my routine.
Same steps. Same order. Same comfort.
Except-
My plate isn't there.
I blink. Look again.
Nothing.
My chest tightens fast, sharp. My hands curl into the sleeves of my hoodie. I rub at my ear, a soft whine slipping out before I can stop it. My breathing speeds up.
That's where it's always at.
Always.
I turn slowly, my eyes landing on Mama first... then Beyoncé.
My expression isn't loud but it's angry. Hurt. Confused.
Beyoncé freezes when she sees my face.
"Oh," she says softly. "Okay. I see."
She sets her phone down. "Baby... we didn't make your plate this morning."
My head tilts. Confusion swirls. My fingers twitch.
She continues carefully, choosing each word. "I just thought... since you said you're grown. And you want more independence... maybe you wouldn't want us doing it for you."
The room goes quiet.
I process it slowly.
They know I eat the same thing.
Every time.
Same portions. Same order. Same plate.
My anger eases into something else. Puzzlement. A little sadness. A little understanding.
