The morning sun spilled into Maddie's hospital room, casting a soft glow over her bed where she lay propped up on pillows, her small face drawn in a pout as Nick offered her another spoonful of congee. The dish, warm and savory with shredded chicken, peas, and bits of broccoli, steamed faintly in the air, mingling with the sterile scent of the hospital.
"Come on, sweetheart," Nick coaxed, his tone gentle but firm. "You can't leave all your vegetables behind."
Maddie scrunched her nose, folding her little arms in defiance. "Nick—dad," she corrected herself, stumbling over the word she was still getting used to, "it's not my fault if the vegetables taste weird and grassy. The hospital chef just can't cook as well as mom can."
