My 13-year-old daughter brought a starved classmate home for dinner – what then fell out of her backpack made me freeze the blood in my veins.
When my daughter brought a quiet, hungry classmate home for dinner, I thought I was just stretching another meal. But one evening something fell out of her backpack, which forced me to see the truth – and reconsider what “enough” really meant for our family and for me.
I used to think that if you worked hard enough, everything would settle itself. Enough to eat, enough warmth and more than enough love.
But in our house, “enough” was something I struggled with in the supermarket, with the weather and in my own thoughts.
According to my plan, on Tuesday there was rice with chicken legs, carrots and half an onion. While I was cutting, I was already calculating the leftovers for lunch and thinking which bill could wait another week.
Dan came in from the garage, his hands were rough, his face awkward.
“Is there dinner soon, honey?” He threw his keys into the bowl.
“Ten minutes,” I said, still counting.
