Growing up poor meant Thanksgiving was just another day. In 2010, while at my friend Layla’s house, the smell of real holiday food overwhelmed me.
I sneaked a taste of gravy—something we never had. Her mom caught me and snapped, “Is this how your mother raised you?” Shame burned through me. But that night, when I opened my backpack, I froze. Inside was a warm Tupperware of turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes… and a note: “No child should go hungry on Thanksgiving.
– Mrs. R.” The same woman who scolded me had quietly fed me. I ate in bed crying, feeling a warmth I hadn’t felt in years. My mom worked double shifts and still struggled to feed us. When I told her what happened, she hugged me and said, “Sometimes kindness wears a hard face.” I avoided Layla’s house for weeks, embarrassed, until she invited me to decorate their Christmas tree.
