I didn’t think my pride had a price tag, but there I was, counting coins and stretching packets of instant noodles like they were gourmet meals. Every call with my parents felt like a performance where I pretended everything was “fine, just busy.” I loved them, and that was exactly why I didn’t want to worry them. So when my mom called out of the blue and casually mentioned she might stop by my apartment to leave a few treats, I laughed it off.
Treats sounded like cookies or maybe leftovers—something sweet, temporary, easy to accept without admitting how tight things had become.
That evening, exhaustion followed me home. The apartment was quiet in that way that makes you feel smaller than the furniture. I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and went straight to the fridge, already planning which noodle flavor would win tonight.
When I opened the door, I didn’t immediately understand what I was seeing. The shelves were full. Not fancy, not extravagant—just full.
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