I wandered back to the hospital room in a daze, the bag of chicken sandwiches warm in my hand, a bitter smile tugging at my lips.
This would be the first taste of meat my son had in three long years.
After our family went bankrupt trying to save his grandfather, he had grown up far too fast, tagging along with me after school to pick up trash just to survive.
At school, he lived off plain steamed buns and bore the brunt of ridicule.
His classmates mocked him, taunted him and called him names.
Even so, with tears clinging to his lashes and bruises darkening his small face, he had looked at Amara and me, asking softly, “Dad, Mom, why did they used to call me ‘Young Master,’ but now they call me a beggar?”
My heart shattered.
I told him gently that real friends care about the person, not their wealth.
I would never forget how Amara cried as she clutched our son in her arms, her voice choked with guilt, whispering apologies, promising she’d work hard, earn money and give him a better life.
That woman, back then, was worlds apart from the one who had flaunted wealth like confetti at the hotel today.