Soupy Twist

She’s lost to me now, perhaps forever. I swear I was only trying to help.
She was sleeping, or away in a different consciousness, curled pitifully on the sofa. It was my chance. I was preparing the soup for her father’s lunch, but he’d brave beans on toast if it would help her. I ladled the steamy creaminess into her Tigger bowl, a favourite since babyhood, and tiptoed to her. I dipped the spoon, and blew. Her lips were slightly parted, and I tried to ignore the waft of death on her breath, the shrunken lips, the concavity of her cheeks that used to be so plump. Is that why, because we called her Chubbychops?
She reared awake as the soup oozed into her mouth, hurling the bowl and me away from her. Chicken soup splattered wallpaper; the carrots looked suddenly vomitty. She retreated to a corner of sofa, spindly legs tucked away, and as she glowered at the shards of Tigger bowl I knew that she had broken her last faith with food.
I collect the pieces. What else can I do? I weep as I realise. Fifteen fragments; one for each birthday.