I grew up very poor.

My mom cleared her throat and, still blushing, added, “Ms. Allen wants to help us in some way.”

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.”

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.

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