I grabbed the worn cloth sack hanging by the door and stepped outside.
It wasn’t far—just a few houses down—but the walk felt endless. The cold air cut through my thin shirt. Dust shifted under my worn shoes. Somewhere nearby, music played from an old radio, and I remember wishing I could just keep walking… past his house, past everything, and not have to stop.
There’s a special kind of shame that comes with being the child sent to ask for food.
It’s not just embarrassment.
It’s the feeling that your family’s hunger is written all over your face.
By the time I reached his door, my heart was pounding so loudly I could hear it. I knocked once, almost hoping he wouldn’t answer.
But he did.
He opened the door slowly, wearing an old flannel shirt, his gray hair messy, his face lined with quiet fatigue. His eyes dropped to the empty sack in my hands, and he understood immediately.
“My mom was wondering if maybe…” I began, my voice catching. “If maybe you could lend us some rice. Just for tonight.”
He didn’t sigh.
Didn’t question me.
Didn’t make me repeat myself.