I froze, the anger draining out of me, replaced by a cold dread. “How do you know all this?”
“Because she passed out in Gym class today,” Emma’s voice cracked. “The nurse gave her a juice box and a lecture about eating a better breakfast. But she doesn’t have breakfast, Mom. She doesn’t have dinner. She eats the free school lunch at eleven, and then she doesn’t eat again for twenty-four hours.”
My stomach turned over. I pictured Zoe, so small and silent, folding in on herself at my dinner table. “Why didn’t she tell the school counselor? They could help.”
Emma looked at me with a cynical exhaustion a child should never possess. “Are you kidding? If she tells, they call Child Protective Services. If CPS comes, they see an empty fridge and find out her dad is working sixteen hours a day, so there’s no supervision. They’ll take her away from him. Her dad will lose his mind, probably lose his job trying to get her back, and they’ll never see each other again. She’s not asking for a handout, Mom. She’s just trying to survive without losing the only family she has left.”
I sank onto a kitchen stool, the cheap vinyl groaning under my weight. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I was worried about stretching a pound of ground beef. This child was carrying the weight of her entire world in a threadbare backpack.
“Bring her back,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat.
Emma looked at me, her anger softening into confusion. “Tomorrow?”
“Every day,” I said, my voice gaining strength. “Bring her back every single day. Until I say stop.”
