For years, her son had been her anchor. He tied her shoes when arthritis stiffened her hands, carried groceries when her arms grew tired, and called just to check in. But as time passed, the calls stopped. Visits grew rare. The excuse was always the same: he was “too busy.”
Busy doesn’t excuse silence. Busy doesn’t fill an empty refrigerator.
One evening, standing before nearly bare shelves, she picked up the phone. At seventy-three, with aching knees and limited mobility, she asked softly if her son could bring bread and eggs. His reply cut deep: “Ma, I’m working late. Can’t you figure it out yourself?”
That night, she ate two saltine crackers with hot water and told herself it was enough. But it wasn’t.
Finding Help in an Unexpected Place
The next morning, out of options, she walked slowly to the soup kitchen on Keller Street. The air smelled of coffee and cabbage, the room filled with people carrying invisible burdens. She sat quietly, cheeks warm with shame.
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