I laughed anyway.
We walked to the bus stop at the end of our street, his small hand swinging in mine.
The air was sharp, and I made a mental note to dig his winter coat out of the closet that night.
He had grown 2 inches since last winter.
"Mom," he said as the bus rounded the corner, "you'll have lunch today, right? A real one?"
I stopped walking.
"Sweetheart, why do you keep asking me that?"
He shrugged, suddenly very interested in his sneakers.
"I just want you to."
"I promise," I said, crouching down so I was eye-level with him.
"I promise, baby. You worry about being seven. I'll worry about the rest. Deal?"
"Deal."
He hugged me tightly, tighter than usual, and then he was running toward the bus, his backpack bouncing and his lunchbox swinging at his side.
I waved until the bus turned the corner.
Walking back to the house, I felt the weight in my shoulders lift just a little.
Forty-three dollars.
A son who still hugged me tight.
We were going to be okay.
I sat down on a public bench near the house, sitting with my grief and my worry.
I was lost in thought, when my phone began to ring in my pocket.
I checked the time: It was 7:30 in the morning.
I had been sitting with my thoughts for 20 minutes, and I didn't even realize it.
I shifted Noah's empty travel mug to my other hand and pressed the screen to my ear, expecting a reminder about an overdue bill or a robocall I would have to delete.
Instead, a woman's voice came through, soft and careful.
"Via? This is Teacher Mariella, Noah's teacher. Do you have a moment?"
I stopped walking.
Something in the way she said my name made the cold morning feel colder.
"Of course," I said. "Is everything okay? Is Noah hurt?"
"No, no, he's fine. He just arrived."
There was a pause that stretched a beat too long.
"Via, can you come in today? I need to talk to you about Noah."
I leaned against the side of the car.
My breath fogged the window.
"Is he in trouble?"
"Not exactly. It's about his lunch."
The word landed strangely.
I had packed his lunch that morning.
A butter sandwich, a wrinkled apple, and a folded napkin of crackers because the snack bags had run out.
He had watched me over the rim of his cereal bowl.
At the bus stop, he had tugged my sleeve and asked, "You'll have lunch today, right? A real one?" I had promised him yes.
I had lied.
"His lunch?" I asked.
