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She sat two rows away from me in our fifth-grade classroom—always kind and bright, but strangely quiet at lunchtime. Each day, while lunchboxes opened around us, she would search her backpack a little too long and finally whisper, “My mom forgot again.” Most kids didn’t notice, but I did. That evening, I told my mom. The next morning, she packed two lunches—one for me and one “just in case.”
It became our unspoken routine. I’d slide the extra lunch to her, and we’d eat together. Over time, she laughed more, talked more, and those shared lunches became a small but special part of our day. Eventually, life moved on. Middle school, high school, new friends—we drifted apart. Still, I thought of her now and then, wondering how she was.
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