Amy was the girl in our class who had nothing. Her clothes were worn, her backpack frayed, and she never brought lunch.
Kids teased her relentlessly. I was her only friend — not because I was brave, but because I couldn’t stand watching her go hungry. So I started packing extra food.
One day, I handed her a cheese sandwich and lied, “I’m not hungry.” She hesitated, then took it. The next day, I brought more. My mom never asked questions. Amy always said thank you in a voice so soft it barely reached the air.
She was quiet, but brilliant — funny, creative, and kind. She once drew a pencil sketch of us on the swings. I kept it tucked in my notebook for years.
