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. We had almost nothing in the fridge—just some vegetables—so my sister and I made a simple salad. We were hungry too, but we packed it into a container, put it in a bag, and headed to her work.
When we arrived, I realized she 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 big hoop earrings that clinked faintly when she moved. My mom’s face lit up when she saw us, but her eyes flicked nervously to the container.
My sister handed it over, and my mom opened it almost too quickly—like someone who hadn’t eaten all day. She took a bite, then looked at Danika.
“You haven’t eaten either, have you?” she asked.
Danika shook her head. “Didn’t bring anything. Card got declined at the vending machine again.”
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