That afternoon, when I came home from school, my mom called to ask for a favor. She hadn’t eaten lunch at work and was feeling hungry. Our refrigerator was nearly empty, holding only a few vegetables. My sister and I did our best and made a simple salad. We were hungry too, but we carefully packed the salad into a container and carried it to her job.
When we got there, we found her in the breakroom with her coworker, a kind woman named Mrs. Danika. Mrs. Danika was in her mid-50s and had a quiet voice. She was rubbing her head, looking tired. My mom’s face lit up when she saw us, but her eyes quickly looked at the salad container.
Mrs. Danika shook her head. “I didn’t bring anything,” she said. “My card got declined at the vending machine again.”
My mom didn’t hesitate. She took out half the salad and put it on a paper plate. Mrs. Danika protested. “No way,” she said. “That’s for you.”
My mom smiled a tired smile. “You think these kids would let me eat without sharing?” she said. “Come on. Eat.”
It wasn’t a big, dramatic moment. It was just “quiet hunger, quietly shared.”
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