You should be ashamed, begging from my son! shouted the mother-in-law upon hearing the mention of food.
Emma, did you buy this cream? asked Catherine, examining the jar on the bathroom shelf. Its awfully expensive.
No, Liam brought it, replied Emma, drying her hands on a towel. Says it helps with wrinkles.
Catherine tightened her lips and placed the jar back. Her son wasted money on frivolities while essentials were neglected. Just this morning, hed called, apologising that the groceries wouldnt arrive till tomorrow.
Whatre we making for lunch? she asked Emma. The fridge has only potatoes and carrots.
Emma shrugged. Dunno. Soup, maybe?
What sort of soup? Theres no meat, no chicken. Just vegetables.
Then well make vegetable soup, Emma said, moving to the kitchen and opening the fridge. Theres onion and cabbage too. Itll be fine.
Catherine shook her head. In her day, women ran households properlyalways stocked, always planning ahead.
What about Sophie? she asked, referring to her four-year-old granddaughter. She wont eat just soup.
Ill make porridge, Emma said, pulling out a packet of oats. Or pasta with butter. Kids love that.
Do we even have butter?
Emma opened the fridge and checked the dish. Barely fifty grams left.
Catherine sighed. They were barely scraping by, yet her son splurged on creams. Young people had their priorities all wrong.
Listen, Emma, she said, sitting on a stool. Could you pop to the shop? At least get bread and milk for Sophie.
With what money? Emma turned to face her. Ive got none.
Hows that possible? You work.
I do. But paydays not till Friday. My purse is empty.
Catherine stood and paced the kitchen. The situation was dire. Liam was late with money, Emma had nothing, and the family needed to eat.
My pension went on medicine, she muttered. Blood pressures been awfulhad to buy expensive tablets.
Then well wait till tomorrow, Emma suggested. One day wont hurt.
And what will Sophie eat? Catherine snapped. Starve the child, will you?
Emma froze, ladle in hand. What dyou suggest? Fry air?
I dont know! Think of something! Youre her mother!
Footsteps pattered in, and Sophie appeared in her teddy bear pyjamas, rubbing her eyes.
Grandma, whens lunch?
Soon, love, Catherine said, lifting her. Mums cooking now.
Silently, Emma began peeling potatoessmall, sprouted, unappetising.
Mum, can I have biscuits? Sophie peered into the cupboard. Theres a box.
Only crumbs left, Emma said. After soup, okay?
What kind of soup?
Potato.
Sophie wrinkled her nose. I dont want potato. I want meat, like at Auntie Graces.
Catherine sighed. The girl was rightchildren needed proper meals, not just vegetables.
Emma placed the pot on the stove, hands trembling faintly from fatigue and tension.
Emma, Catherine said quietly, why not phone someone? Friends, your parents?
Why?
To borrow money. For food.
Emma turned sharply. No. Theyve got their own troubles.
But theyd understand.
I dont beg.
Your parents, then?
Mums in hospital. Dads with her. Theyve enough expenses.
Catherine eyed the potwater and potatoes bubbling blandly.
Right, she said firmly. Ill call Liam. Ask him to bring something.
He said he cant today.
Well try anyway.
She dialled. Liam? Its me Fine Listen, cant you come by today? Weve no food What dyou mean no money? Fine. Tomorrow, then.
Hanging up, she looked at Emma. Says hell come in the morning. Genuinely skint.
So we make do. Emma stirred the soup.
Sophie, meanwhile, climbed a chair and grabbed the biscuit boxempty but for crumbs.
Mum, can I eat these?
Go on, darling.
The girl licked them from her palm. Catherines heart ached.
Emma, she tried again, just ask a friend. For Sophies sake.
How many times? No!
Why not? Too proud?
Its not prideits decency!
Decency? The childs hungry!
Emma shoved the pot into the fridge.
That evening, Sophie refused the reheated soup.
Its yucky. And cold.
Ill warm it.
Dont want soup. Want sausages.
Not today.
Sophie cried. Catherine rocked her.
Hush, love. Granll sort something.
Emma spun around. Sort what?
Ask a neighbour. Mrs. Wilkins.
Dont you dare!
Decent people help each other!
I wont have you begging!
Begging? Catherine stepped closer. Who dyou think you are?
She set Sophie down and glared at Emma.
Youre ashamed to ask my son? But fine letting the girl starve?
Emma paled. How dare you!
Sophie wailed. Emma swept her into the bedroom.
Alone, Catherines hands shook. Such stubbornness! She dialled Mrs. Wilkins.
Five minutes later, she returned with a bagmilk, yoghurts, biscuits.
Emma sat red-eyed at the table.
Whats that?
Mrs. Wilkins sent it. For Sophie.
I told you
The childs hungry!
Sophie gasped at the treats. Whered these come from?
Mrs. Wilkins, love.
As Sophie devoured a yoghurt, Emma whispered, Thank you.
Thank her, not me.
Emma watched her daughter eat, bitterness churning inside. Perhaps pride was a luxury she couldnt afford. Not when it hurt her child.
