“Not Leftovers—Family”
Angela’s health improved rapidly under proper care. Richard arranged a safe apartment in a quiet neighborhood, part-time work for Angela at one of his companies, and a scholarship fund for Maya’s education.
On moving day, Maya ran from room to room, laughing as she opened doors and discovered her very own bedroom. Angela stood in the doorway, overwhelmed. “She’s never had her own room,” she whispered.
“Now she does,” Richard replied softly.
In the months that followed, Richard visited often. Maya grew more confident, greeting him with bright smiles instead of shy glances. Angela, though still cautious, began to trust him.
One afternoon, as Maya played in her room, Angela asked quietly, “Why are you doing this?”
Richard leaned back in his chair. “When I was eight, my mother fainted at the table because she skipped meals so I could eat. A neighbor helped us—paid for her medicine, filled our fridge. He wanted nothing in return. That night I promised myself that if I ever made it in life, I’d do the same for someone else.”
Tears filled Angela’s eyes. Richard added softly, “Promise me Maya will never again have to kneel by someone’s table and ask for leftovers.”
Months later, in his office, Richard looked at a crayon drawing pinned to his wall. Maya had drawn herself holding hands with a tall man in a suit. Beneath it, in shaky letters, were the words:
“Not leftovers. Family.”
Richard smiled. The promise he made as a hungry boy had finally been fulfilled.
