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 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.”
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