It became their quiet ritual. Some mornings pancakes, other days eggs and toast, or oatmeal when it was cold.
He never asked, never explained, but always finished every bite.
“Who’s that boy you keep serving?” Harold, a retired postman, asked one morning. “Never seen his parents.”
“I don’t know,” Jenny admitted softly. “But he’s hungry.”
Kathy, the cook, gave her a warning. “You’re feeding a stray. Give too much, and they disappear. One day he’ll be gone.”
Jenny only shrugged. “That’s fine. I remember being hungry too.”
She never asked the boy’s name. Something in his careful posture, his watchful eyes, told her questions might drive him away. Instead, she kept his glass full and his food warm. Over time, his shoulders loosened, and sometimes his eyes lingered on hers for a second longer.
But others noticed too—and not kindly.
“Playing charity worker on company time?”
“Kids today expect handouts.”
“In my day, no one gave food for free.”
