I grew up very poor.

I felt a tightness in my chest that I couldn’t quite describe. Part of me felt relieved. Another part of me felt ashamed. And then there was a little spark of curiosity—cooking with Ms. Allen? That actually sounded fun, maybe even empowering.

I looked at my mom, who had tears in her eyes, though she tried to blink them away. “Only if you want to,” my mom said softly. “I can’t offer you that variety of food. But Ms. Allen is kind enough to invite you.”

I took a deep breath. Everything in my 13-year-old mind was swirling—fear of being judged, embarrassment, the warmth of Ms. Allen’s kindness. In the end, it was my hunger and my longing to learn something new that made me nod and say, “Okay. I’ll try.”

From that day on, every Wednesday after school, I’d go to Ms. Allen’s house. I’d help her chop vegetables, stir soup, or season the chicken. She’d show me how to peel potatoes without wasting half of them, or how to tell if the pasta was cooked just right. Sometimes my friend Zara (Ms. Allen’s daughter) would stop by and laugh at how serious I looked with an apron tied around my waist. But overall, it was a comfortable routine, almost like a second home.

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