My parents have a spoon that's shaped a bit like a cockle shell. I noticed this at 4 years old, and I remember my mother tempting me to eat things by offering it with "the shell spoon". I obliged when she did this, not because I was tempted by the shell spoon, but because it made me feel a certain way each time she offered. Not quite an appreciation of her thoughtfulness, but rather the dread of a tragic scenario in which she was unable to tempt me with an object she thought I liked. And the truth is that I didn't really like it. The edges of the shell were very sharp, so each mouthful felt like dragging two dull blades across my lips.

I would never let on that I didn't like the spoon, because I couldn't bear the thought of her feeling like she had failed me. The dreams in which my mother tried but failed to rescue me from various perilous situations were distressing enough. In my desperation to assure her that the ways she expressed love hadn't gone unnoticed, I did all sorts of things I didn't much want to, and feigned enthusiasm for things I considered banal.

To this day, when I open my parents' cutlery drawer and see that spoon, my heart sinks. No one will ever use it, I get sad every time I look at it, but I can't bear the thought of anyone throwing it away.

There is nothing emotionally healthy about the shell spoon.