Feeding Hope

Chapter 2Hunger and Waste

The Hidden Hunger

It happened on a quiet weeknight, the kind of night that starts with laughter. My friend and I were in her kitchen, sitting on barstools, talking about nothing serious—just life, memories, and how far we'd come since college. We were laughing so hard our sides hurt, reminiscing about the jersey dresses we used to make ourselves, the big hair, the glittery eye makeup, and how thankful we were that social media hadn't been around back then. There's no record of our terrible fashion choices except a few disposable camera photos tucked away in old shoeboxes.

It was one of those warm, easy nights when joy fills the room. Then she offered me something to drink. She stood, still smiling, walked to the refrigerator, and pulled open the door. In an instant the whole kitchen filled with light—the kind of light you see when you sneak into your own kitchen late at night and the refrigerator floods the dark. But instead of shelves full of food, there was almost nothing. Just the bright glow reflecting off empty space.

I froze. It was the kind of quiet shock that makes the world narrow. My friend loved food as much as I did. She had helped me cook for years through Sunday Soul ATL, seasoning pots, plating trays, feeding people with the same care she showed her family. I knew her as someone who could make a feast out of scraps. Seeing that refrigerator bare felt like seeing the sky without stars.

I didn't say anything. I didn't have to. Whatever ...