That night, I told my mom about her — how she hid her hunger behind a smile and tried not to be noticed. My mom listened carefully and simply said, “We’ll pack an extra lunch tomorrow.” The next morning, she tucked two full lunches into my bag and whispered, “You’ll know what to do.”
At school, I sat beside the girl and offered her the extra lunch. She hesitated only a moment before accepting, her eyes shining with gratitude. From that day on, we ate together every afternoon. Slowly, she opened up, telling me about her family’s struggles and her mother’s long work hours. She never complained; she simply kept going, hopeful and quiet.
Our shared lunches became more than food. They became a place of safety and belonging, a small corner of the cafeteria where she didn’t have to pretend. When school eventually ended, we drifted apart, and the memory of those days settled somewhere warm but distant.
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