The Leftovers

Ma said it didn’t matter that he’d run off.

She said she could work as well as any man, and that as long as she could walk upright we’d never go without, but we did, plenty. I never complained cause complaining never put more food in the pot. There was what there was. Stew at the start of the week, and a thin broth by the end, with maybe a heel of stale bread between us.

I don’t know how many nights I laid in bed, trying to quiet my near empty stomach and cursing the man who left us.



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