I grew up very poor.

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.

Before long, I realized she was teaching me more than just cooking skills. She taught me how to be patient with people, how to share a meal, and how to take pride in something done well. I started noticing that my confidence grew whenever I stirred a pot and smelled something delicious that I had made with my own hands.

One day, after we finished baking some biscuits, Ms. Allen asked me, “Where do you see yourself when you’re older?” I hesitated. Nobody had ever really asked me that question so directly. “I’m not sure,” I mumbled. “Somewhere, I guess.”

She wiped her flour-covered hands on a dish towel and said, “You’re allowed to dream bigger than ‘somewhere.’ You know that, right?”

I shrugged. “It’s hard to dream big when you can barely afford dinner most days. People in my situation don’t usually get to choose.”

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