Once, when I got back home from school my mom called and asked me to bring her some food to work, because she was not given lunch. We didn’t have any food at home, so my sister and I made a vegetable salad. We were hungry too, but we put the container into a bag and went to her work.
So we got there, and it turned out she wasn’t alone. Her coworker, a woman named Mrs. Danika, was sitting beside her in the breakroom, rubbing her temples like her head hurt. She was maybe in her mid-50s, soft-spoken, and always wore big hoop earrings that clinked when she moved. My mom’s face lit up when she saw us, but her eyes darted nervously toward the salad.
My sister handed her the container without saying anything, and I noticed how quickly she tried to open it, like she hadn’t eaten all day. She took one bite, then paused and looked at Danika.
