My mom asked me to sit down. Then Ms. Allen started speaking in a quiet voice. She said, “I noticed how you reacted during dinner last night. At first, I didn’t understand why you wouldn’t look at anyone, but now I realize…you’re just not used to having enough to eat. You seemed hungry, but you also seemed embarrassed.”
For a moment, my ears rang and I could barely process her words. All I remembered was that they had passed around a basket of warm rolls, thick slices of meat, and a spread of vegetables. I had been so amazed by the meal that it was hard for me to focus on anything else. I must have stared at the dishes like they were something from another planet.
My heart clenched. I didn’t want help. I was tired of handouts, tired of pity. I looked at Ms. Allen, and I noticed she seemed very sincere. She wasn’t looking at me like I was some poor stray dog. She looked…concerned, like she genuinely wanted to do something good. But my pride still stung.
She took a careful step toward me. “I wanted to know if you’d like to come over for dinner regularly. Maybe even help me cook sometimes. It doesn’t have to be anything official. But I saw the way you lit up, even for just that split second, when you tasted a proper meal. I know there’s not always enough at your own home.”
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