I grew up in a world where poverty was a constant companion. When I was 13, I found myself at a classmate’s house, staying for dinner for the first time. Everyone at the table stared at me, and I couldn’t quite understand why. The next day, I came home from school to find my friend’s mother, Ms. Allen, standing in our living room. My mom’s face was flushed, and she turned to me, saying, “We need to talk.”
Confusion overwhelmed me. I couldn’t remember anything I’d done wrong. Had I broken something? Said something rude? My mind raced through possible mistakes as I glanced nervously at Ms. Allen, who stood by the window looking both worried and awkward.
“Sit down,” my mom said softly. Ms. Allen then spoke quietly, but with an intensity that made me focus. “I noticed how you reacted during dinner last night. At first, I didn’t understand why you wouldn’t look at anyone, but now I realize…you’re just not used to having enough to eat. You seemed hungry, but also embarrassed.”