I didn’t push. I simply nodded.
Still, I knew.
A child with parents waiting doesn’t beg in the rain. A child with parents waiting doesn’t wear hunger like a second skin.
I looked at him, small fingers pinching the edge of his shirt, suddenly looking much younger than his brave words.
So I made a decision that felt simple at the time.
“Instead of begging every day,” I told him, “come here. When you’re hungry, come to my shop.”
His eyes widened. “Every day?”
“Yes.”
He nodded fast, as if he was afraid I would change my mind. “Thank you, Auntie.”
From that day, David came every morning.
I opened early, and he would appear a few minutes later, standing quietly at the door with that small polite smile.
I gave him food. He always said thank you. He never demanded more. He never acted entitled. He ate like someone who had learned not to expect generosity to last.
Even when I told him he didn’t need to help, he insisted on doing small chores. Sweeping the front of the shop. Wiping the counter. Arranging chairs. Carrying small loads for customers.
He did it with quiet sincerity, not desperation. Customers began to like him immediately. Some people even asked if he was my son.
David would blush and shake his head shyly.
But as the days passed, I noticed something else.
A sadness he tried to hide behind those small smiles. Sometimes I caught him staring into space like he was holding a heavy thought. Sometimes he went completely silent when certain topics came up, especially anything about family or home.
