or if hunger will wake you before dawn.
My mom worked cleaning houses.
She left before the sun came up…
and came back when it was already gone.
She was always tired.
Her hands were rough.
Her back was bent.
But she still smiled.
Not because she was happy…
but because she didn’t want us to stop being.
At home… it was just me and Noah.
Noah… my baby brother.
He was only one year old.
He didn’t understand the world.
He didn’t understand money.
He didn’t understand why sometimes there was food…
and sometimes there wasn’t.
But his body understood.
And it cried.
That afternoon… he wouldn’t stop crying.
It wasn’t whining.
It wasn’t fussiness.
It was hunger.
The kind that hurts.
The kind that words can’t calm.
“Hey… it’s okay, baby…” I whispered, holding him close.
“I’ll find something for you… I promise.”
I went to the kitchen.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
As if the third time would make something appear.
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