The next day, I made extra pasta, nerves buzzing as I seasoned the meat. Lizie returned, hugging her bag. At dinner, she finished everything, then carefully wiped her spot at the table.
Dan asked, “You doing okay, Lizie?”
She nodded without looking at him.
By Friday, she had become part of our routine—homework, dinner, goodbye. She washed dishes with Sam, humming quietly. One evening, she fell asleep at the counter, then woke with a start and apologized three times.
Dan caught my arm. “Should we call someone? She needs… help, right?”
“And say what?” I whispered. “That her dad’s struggling and she’s tired? I don’t even know where to start, Dan. Let’s just do what we can.”
He sighed. “She looks worn out.”
I nodded. “I’ll talk to her. Gently this time.”
Over the weekend, I tried to learn more.
Sam shrugged. “She doesn’t talk about home. Just says her dad works a lot. And sometimes the power gets cut. She pretends it’s fine, but she’s always hungry… and tired.”
That Monday, Lizie looked even paler. As she pulled out her homework, her backpack slipped off the chair and burst open. Papers scattered across the floor—crumpled bills, an envelope of coins, and a shutoff notice stamped “FINAL WARNING” in red.
A worn notebook fell open, pages filled with lists.
