I imagined what it would feel like to go to sleep with a full stomach.
That sack felt like a miracle.
When I pushed open the door, my mother turned so quickly her chair scraped the floor.
She froze when she saw it.
“Victor gave you all that?”
I nodded, breathless. “The whole sack.”
My sisters ran over immediately, circling it like it was treasure. Even in that dim kitchen, the room felt brighter. My mother placed both hands on the rough fabric, as if she needed to be sure it was real.
Then she smiled.
A real smile.
I hadn’t seen one in weeks.
“Tonight,” she whispered, “we’ll eat well.”
She pulled the sack closer and grabbed a knife, cutting through the stitching at the top.
Then she stopped.
Her hands froze.
At first, I thought she had hurt herself. But then I heard it too—a strange sound from inside the rice.
Not grains shifting.
Something heavier.
Something wrapped.
She frowned, widened the opening, and slid her hand inside.
When she pulled it out and saw what was hidden there, the color drained from her face instantly.
The bundle slipped from her hands.
And she collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
I dropped beside her, terrified. “Mom? What is it?”
She shook her head, unable to speak.