I grew up with very little. Most nights, dinner was just toast with a thin layer of cheese—simple, quick, and never enough to truly fill me up.
When I was 12, I went to a friend’s beautiful, fancy house to work on a group project. Her mom had set the table like something out of a movie—plates, cutlery, and several hot dishes that smelled incredible. I remember feeling both excited and nervous. I was so hungry, and I couldn’t stop staring at all the food.
But once we started eating, I noticed something uncomfortable: people kept glancing at me. I tried to act normal, but my hands felt clumsy. When I picked up the knife and started cutting my meat, her mom suddenly gasped. She looked genuinely alarmed and blurted out, “Are you mad? You’re going to hurt yourself! That’s not how you hold a knife to cut meat!”
My face burned. I thought I’d done something terrible. Instead of getting angry, though, she came over, gently took my hand, and showed me the proper way to hold the knife and cut my food safely. I mumbled an apology and admitted, quietly, that it had been a long time since I’d eaten meat.
Later that day, when I got home, I reached into my pocket and froze. There was a small note folded up inside. It read: “Our doors are open for you. You can come over for dinner anytime.”
And they meant it. For a whole year, I spent one day each week at their house—sitting at their warm table, eating real meals, and feeling, for a few hours, like life could be gentle. As we grew older, my friend and I drifted apart, but I never forgot what her family did for me.
That kindness stayed with me. It still does.
