He only understood when his stomach hurt.
That afternoon, he started crying.
Not fussing.
Not whining.
Crying from hunger.
I held him against my chest and gently rocked him.
“It’s okay, Noah. I’ll find something for you.”
I had no idea how.
Still, I carried him into the kitchen and searched.
I opened the cabinets once.
Then twice.
Then a third time, as if food might somehow appear because I needed it badly enough.
Nothing.
I checked the drawers.
Empty.
Finally, I opened the refrigerator.
Cold air touched my face.
That was all it contained.
I stared inside while Noah cried against my shoulder, and a lump rose in my throat. I wanted to sit on the kitchen floor and cry with him, but I couldn’t.
If I fell apart, who would comfort him?
Then I remembered Aunt Lisa.
She didn’t have much either, but sometimes she helped Mom when things became desperate. Twenty dollars might not have seemed like much to other people, but that afternoon it felt like the difference between my brother eating and going hungry.
