He just looked at me—and there was something in his eyes I didn’t fully understand back then. Not pity. Not surprise. Something heavier. Something like he had been waiting for this moment.
Without a word, he turned and walked inside.
I expected him to come back with a small amount, maybe wrapped in paper.
Instead, he returned carrying a full sack of rice.
A real one. Thick, heavy, the kind stores kept stacked in corners.
He lowered it into my arms, and the weight nearly pulled me forward.
I stared at him, stunned. “Uncle… this is too much.”
“Take it,” he said.
“But—”
“Take it to your mother,” he repeated, his voice steady. Then he placed a hand on my shoulder. “And listen to me, son… don’t be ashamed.”
The way he said it made something shift inside me.
I nodded quickly, thanked him again and again, and began the slow walk home, carrying the sack pressed tightly to my chest. It was so heavy my arms burned within seconds, but I didn’t care.
For once, I wasn’t bringing home lack.
I was bringing something that felt like relief.
All the way back, I imagined my mother smiling.
I imagined my sisters laughing.
I imagined steam rising from a pot of real rice.