He rubbed his forehead. “We don’t even know what ‘this’ is.”
“We will,” I said.
Because hunger always talks eventually.
Sometimes it whispers through a hollow laugh.
Sometimes it rattles in an empty backpack.
Sometimes it shows up as a young man with no suitcase on Thanksgiving.
And sometimes it breaks your heart right in the middle of a house that looks fine from the outside.
Later that night, when the leftovers were packed and the pies were reduced to crumbs, I went to grab a blanket from the hall closet.
As I passed the pantry, I saw the door cracked open.
A thin line of light spilled into the hallway.
I stopped.
Inside, Lucas stood with his back to me.
He had the pantry light on.
And he was staring.
Not at one thing.
At all of it.
Like he was trying to memorize what abundance looked like.
His hands were at his sides, clenched and unclenched, clenched and unclenched.
Then, very slowly, he reached out and touched a bag of rice, like he couldn’t believe it was real.
I didn’t move.
Because I’ve learned something about shame.
If you shine a spotlight on it, it becomes cruelty.
Lucas whispered, so softly I almost didn’t hear him.
“Sorry.”
The word hit me like a slap.
Not because he was wrong.
Because he was trained to apologize for wanting food.
I stepped forward quietly. “You don’t have to say sorry in this house.”
He startled—shoulders up, body ready to retreat.
Then he turned, and his face went blank in the way people’s faces go blank when they’re bracing for judgment.
“I wasn’t taking anything,” he blurted.
“I know,” I said gently.
His eyes flicked down. “I just… I didn’t know you had—”
He stopped himself.
Because he didn’t know how to finish that sentence without sounding like an accusation.
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