When I was 12 years old, my world turned upside down. My dad lost his job, and our family went from living comfortably to barely scraping by. I didn’t fully understand the weight of it at first, but I could feel the tension in our home—the whispered conversations between my parents, the bills stacked neatly on the table, and the quiet sadness in my mom’s eyes. At school, it was even harder. While other kids had packed lunches or money for the cafeteria, most days I had nothing but a bottle of water. I’d sit at the lunch table,

pretending I wasn’t hungry, forcing a smile as my friends chatted around me. It was embarrassing, but I didn’t want anyone to know how tough things were at home.One afternoon, I unzipped my backpack and froze. Inside was a small pie, still warm. I looked around, confused, but no one seemed to notice. The next day, there was an apple. The day after that, a sandwich. It became a quiet, unspoken routine. Whoever was behind it never said a word, and neither did I. But each day, I felt a little less invisible, a little more cared for. Those small acts of kindness gave me hope during a time when everything felt heavy.