When I got home from school one afternoon, my mom called and asked if I could bring her some food to work. She hadn’t been given lunch that day. We barely had anything in the fridge—just a few vegetables—so my sister and I made a simple salad. We were hungry too, but we packed it carefully into a container, placed it in a bag, and headed to her workplace.
When we arrived, my mom wasn’t alone. Her coworker, Mrs. Danika, sat beside her in the breakroom, rubbing her temples. She was in her mid-50s, soft-spoken, always wearing those big hoop earrings that clinked gently when she moved. My mom smiled when she saw us, but I caught a flicker of hesitation in her eyes as she opened the container.
My sister handed it to her, and my mom took a quick bite—like someone who hadn’t eaten all day. Then she looked at Danika and asked, “You haven’t eaten either, have you?”
Danika sighed. “Didn’t bring anything. My card got declined at the vending machine again.”
Without thinking twice, my mom scooped half the salad onto a paper plate and handed it to her.
“No way,” Danika protested. “That’s for you.”
“You think these kids would let me eat without sharing?” my mom said with a tired smile. “Come on, eat.”
It wasn’t a grand moment. Just quiet hunger, quietly shared.
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