She latched the tray in place, making sure to watch out for his little hands so they didn’t get caught or pinch as she locked it into place and pulled a kitchen chair around in front of him, holding the bowl of warm mushy oatmeal in her lap with a spoon shaped like a choo-choo train that looked to be older than James was by a few decades.
James could feel Mayra rustle his hair after being planted in the high chair seat. Her long peach colored nails stroking through his hair gave him mixed feelings. It had begun to dawn on him, he was feeling something he couldn’t explain other than it wasn’t the same kind absolute terror he had felt over the last day of being stuck in this house; a diapering, pampering prison.