My sister gave the container to my mom, who opened it as if she hadn’t eaten all day. She took a bite and then looked at Mrs. Danika. “You haven’t eaten either, have you?” she asked.
Mrs. Danika shook her head. “I didn’t bring anything,” she said. “My card got declined at the vending machine again.”
My mom smiled a tired smile. “You think these kids would let me eat without sharing?” she said. “Come on. Eat.”
It wasn’t a big, dramatic moment. It was just “quiet hunger, quietly shared.”
That evening, my sister and I shared the last piece of bread in the house. We didn’t have any butter, but we pretended everything was fine. We were used to it. But that day, something changed in me. I started to notice more—the meals my mom skipped, the duct tape holding her shoes together.Continue reading…
