I used to think pride was an abstract idea—something discussed more than experienced. That changed when I found myself carefully stretching every coin, turning a handful of pantry items into meals that barely felt complete. I spoke to my parents often, but selectively, always making sure to reassure them that everything was fine. Letting them worry felt heavier than quietly managing on my own.

So when my mother casually mentioned that she might stop by to leave a few “treats,” I brushed it off without much thought. I assumed it was a small, well-meaning gesture, nothing more.