I grew up very poor.

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.

On the first Wednesday I showed up, I remember being so nervous that I almost didn’t ring the doorbell. But Ms. Allen opened the door before I could back away and said, “Welcome! You’re just in time. I’ve got the onions ready.” And that was that—there was no big fuss, no pity party. We just got to work.

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