He hasn’t eaten.
The boy backed toward the door. “Sorry, ma’am. I can go.”
“No, honey. Come in. But your family must be worried. Where do you live?” I asked gently.
He looked down. “My mom died.”
“What about your dad?”
“I hardly ever see him. I live with my aunt.” Noah looked down at his hands. “He says I’m her problem.”
Noah needed my help.
I served them soup, mac and cheese, and homemade cake.
Noah finished the soup before Emma had taken three bites.
“Do you want more?”
He hesitated. “Is there enough?”
The question caught me off guard. “There’s plenty.”
He says I’m her problem.
“Can I have some for later?”
Emma looked at me.
“Of course,” I said. “We’ll pack some up.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
There’s plenty.
He lowered his eyes. “Aunt Claire says that too.”
