I only went into that little corner store because my youngest wouldn’t stop crying from hunger. I thought maybe I could find something cheap, anything really, to tide us over. But eggs were $4.29, and I only had $1.67 left in my wallet. I stood there staring at that carton for what felt like forever. Then I just… slipped it into my coat pocket.
Of course, the cashier saw me. He didn’t yell or cause a scene, just calmly asked, “You wanna pay for those?” Panic hit me, and I ran. Dumb move, I know. I didn’t even make it past the alley before a patrol car pulled up.
The officer was young, with kind eyes, though still serious. He asked me to empty my coat. I did. He looked at the eggs, then at me. “You got kids?” I nodded, unable to speak. He sighed, said, “Stay here,” and walked off with his partner.
I thought for sure I was getting arrested. I braced myself. But ten minutes later, they came back—not just with the eggs, but with two bags of groceries. Bread, peanut butter, bananas, even a pack of juice boxes. I just stood there, crying like an idiot in the cold.
“We’re not here to punish people trying to feed their families,” one of them said quietly.
I thanked them repeatedly, feeling embarrassed but also something I hadn’t felt in weeks—seen. I went home and made scrambled eggs for my kids, like it was Christmas morning.
But here’s the thing… two days later, someone left a note under my door. No name. Just: “We saw what happened. You’re not the only one.”
And now I’m wondering who else knows. Or worse… who’s watching.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Every little noise from outside—footsteps in the hallway, creaks on the stairs—made my heart race. My apartment building wasn’t the kind of place where neighbors greeted each other with fresh-baked cookies, but it was still home. And now, I was afraid someone was monitoring my every move. I tried to calm myself by focusing on the kids. My oldest was busy with her crayons, while my youngest asked for more PB&J. At least I had bread and peanut butter now. At least they were fed.
I reread the note for what felt like the hundredth time. “We saw what happened. You’re not the only one.” It sounded ominous, but was it really? Maybe it was just another parent in the building, someone who’d hit rock bottom the same way I had and wanted to tell me I wasn’t alone. The thought comforted me, but only for a moment. My mind still wandered to worst-case scenarios.
That afternoon, I got a knock on my door. My heart jumped. I peeked through the peephole—no one was there. Finally, I opened it, hoping it wasn’t a prank. Lying on the doorstep was a small paper bag, slightly crinkled, like it had been used once or twice. Inside, I found a few cans of soup, some pasta, and a jar of marinara sauce. No note this time, just a single black marker line on the outside of the bag—a simple smiley face. I looked down the hallway, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever left it, but it was empty.
A wave of relief washed over me. Someone cared enough to leave food, no questions asked. My kids and I had something to eat that night besides sandwiches. We had warm tomato soup and crackers, and the kids thought it was a feast. They clapped their hands and kept saying how yummy it was. And for the first time in a long while, I felt less alone.
The next morning, I decided I needed to do something about the situation. I couldn’t keep living in constant fear of being discovered or judged. I also couldn’t keep relying on small acts of kindness to feed my kids. I needed a job—something stable. I’d been laid off at the diner a few weeks ago, and though I’d sent out countless applications, there’d been no luck. Still, I resolved to try again. After dropping my oldest off at school, I bundled up my youngest and headed to the community center a few blocks away. Sometimes they posted job listings or offered childcare while parents did interviews.