My name’s Brooke, I’m 37, and I’ve been raising my son Eli alone for seven years in a small town that’s half charm, half rust. I work double shifts at Millie’s Diner — the kind of place where the coffee’s always bitter, the floors squeak, and old men named Hank come in at sunrise to talk about fishing… but never actually fish. It’s not glamorous, but it’s life.
Eli’s ten, quiet, gentle — the kind of kid who waves at garbage collectors and thanks the bus driver every morning. One day, I saw him flip a beetle over onto its feet. “Everyone deserves help, Mom,” he said. That’s just who he is.
It started in spring. I noticed the peanut butter and bread disappearing faster than usual. His lunchbox came home spotless every day. Something didn’t add up. One afternoon, I cut through the alley behind the old hardware store and saw Eli crouched near a rusted dumpster, unzipping his backpack. He pulled out a sandwich, tore it in half, and placed a piece gently on the ground. From under the dumpster, a scrappy dog crept out — ribs showing, fur matted.
“Hey, buddy,” Eli whispered. “I saved you some.”
I froze, hidden behind the fence, heart tight. That night, I packed extra — a sandwich, a slice of pie, a jar of honey. The next morning, Eli grinned. “Thanks, Mom.”
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