Maria froze. The twins stared at him, wide-eyed and unmoving.
“What… were you doing?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
Maria swallowed hard. For a moment, it looked as though she might cry.
“We were saying thank you,” she said softly.
“For the food.”
Mr. Whitaker glanced at the plates again—the meager portions, the way the children instinctively pressed closer to their mother.
“Is that… your lunch?” he asked.
Maria hesitated, then nodded.
“I bring them with me,” she explained. “I can’t afford daycare. And I didn’t want to leave them alone.”
Only then did he notice how thin she looked, how tired, the faint shadows beneath her eyes.
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