It was a small bundle wrapped in a dish towel, and the towel had come loose when it hit the floor. Inside were foil packets, a dozen of them, each one carefully folded shut. I knew what they were before my mind caught up, because I had watched her make them. They were portions of the dinners I had served her over the past two weeks. Half of every meal, saved. Not eaten. Hidden. Rice, chicken, whatever we had, pressed flat and wrapped so it would keep. My daughter Mia stood in the doorway with her mouth open. Talia’s face had gone white.

“I wasn’t stealing,” she whispered, and her voice broke on the last word. “I ate here. I did. But I couldn’t, I couldn’t just eat and leave him with nothing.” She was shaking now, both hands twisting the hem of her hoodie. “Please don’t tell me I can’t come back. I’ll stop. I promise I’ll stop taking it home.” That was when I understood the girl had not been carrying food out of my kitchen for herself at all. And I had to sit down on the floor right there beside her backpack, because my chest had gone tight.