The Gift of Food.
Wynter Frost.
Prologue.
Katy
Hunger comes in many shapes and sizes. Food hunger. Emotional hunger. Hunger for knowledge. Hunger for money. There’s a list a mile long, and I’ve experienced some, but two stand out. Emotional and food. Mom and Dad were poor, and sometimes we couldn’t afford to eat. We lived in a slum and barely scraped by. Don’t get me wrong, my parents worked, but they earned minimum wage and bills made up most of that.
I was more than familiar with the gnawing pain of hunger, of not having enough food. I wasn’t a healthy-looking child. Luckily, I got school dinners, or I would have starved. Weekends were when we really struggled. My parents sacrificed for me; I wasn’t the only one to go hungry. Those images of red-cheeked, laughing, robust children were blown out of the water when people looked at me. Scrawny, thin, sallow-skinned, second-hand clothes - that was me.
Kids bullied me, made my life hell, and I learned to escape into books. They offered me worlds that I would never visit but would lose myself in. Starved for knowledge, I devoured every book in the library and absorbed everything possible. That was another hunger, or perhaps a thirst; I craved information. Mom and Dad loved me, and I adored them in return. But my peersdestroyed me emotionally; none were kind to the poor girl. Naturally, I was the bully’s favourite victim, especially outside of school.
I assisted where I could, taking on jobs like mowing the lawn and car washing. Those meagre earnings helped buy food for us. When I won college sponsorships, my parents couldn’t believe it. I would be the first to attend. Mom and Dad were so proud and so ashamed that they couldn’t support my education. There were no new clothes or books, and I’d continue to struggle. But I never blamed them.
Their parents on both sides had been drug addicts, and my parents attending school, hadn’t been important. They wished they could go back and do things differently, but it was too late for them, but not for me. Today, I was an architect at a large construction company and earned over six figures. More than enough to move Mum and Dad out of the slum they’d lived in and into a nice semi-detached house.
Now I looked after them, and we had a good life. Once a week, on a Saturday, we headed down to a soup kitchen to help there. Nobody had ever helped us until I graduated, but we weren’t the type of folk who’d sit back and let bitterness overwhelm us.
People claim food is the language of love. This is my story and proof that food can help you find love in the strangest places.
Chapter One.
Katy
Every Wednesday, the staff in my department insisted on lunch at a restaurant several doors down from our office. Hump Day Wednesday, was supposedly battled and overcome with this brilliant idea. What a load of bull. My colleagues would be full of shit, all babbling about their plans for the weekend. As much as I tried to refuse, my manager made this ‘mandatory’. Heck, I didn’t fit in with the airheads and didn’t want to.
They discussed things I didn’t understand, which was weird as I was the same age. Twenty-six years old, and I felt forty. They talked about bars, dating, and social media, then gossiped about trending topics, the latest movies, and who was hot and who was not. I didn’t know how to relate to this useless knowledge. Heck, I had nothing in common with them. Perhaps that reflected poorly on me. Actually, there was no maybe about it; it did reflect sadly on me.
None of that rubbish honestly meant anything. It didn’t aid my goals and plans, and I wouldn’t let myself be derailed. Despite humble beginnings, I knew what I wanted for my family and myself, and I was determined to achieve it. So, I’d play along, smile awkwardly at lunch and waste another hour and a half of my life once a week.
It wasn’t about money; I had plenty, even with paying two mortgages, a car payment, and squirrelling savings away. I’d worked hard to get where I was today, and these lucky people had a far different life from mine. But the women in the group were the type of girls who’d have bullied me at school. They were the popular crowd, and I remained the weirdo on the outskirts. The guys didn’t even glance my way. And my colleagues knew that; they rarely included me in their conversations, and if they did, it was only to mock me.
But they wouldn’t upset me too much; my designs were in demand, and I made a lot of money for the company. Luckily, I understood my self-worth, and it was higher than theirs. Seeing everyone starting to move, I sighed, grabbed my purse, and headed to the elevator. They were already cackling and making jokes, and I was dreading lunch.
“Oh God, he’s back,” Tiffany sniffed as we left the lift.
“Who?” Sami demanded, and I wondered the same, too. Was someone causing Tiffany problems?
“That homeless creep. Nasty thing sits and stares at everyone. The police have moved him on several times, but say he’s not doing anything wrong. It’s disgusting,” Tiffany moaned.
I glanced over to see who Tiffany meant and spotted a man sitting on the bench near the building. He wasn’t paying us any attention but was looking at the small park with a smile on his lips. He was definitely homeless. His clothing was dirty and old, and his hair long. His beard was scruffy and tangled, yet his eyes were clear.
“People like him should be put down,” Emily stated cruelly, and I bristled.
“People like him?” I asked as anger bit.
Heads swivelled towards me, and several eyebrows rose.
“Yes. A drain on society,” Emily doubled down.
“Sorry, I didn’t realise you knew him,” I snapped, and now they looked uncomfortable.
“Excuse me?” Emily hissed. “How would I know somebody like that?”
“Then how are you certain he’s a drain on society? Poor man could be a former armed forces member who has PTSD. He could have a mental illness, or someone who life screwed over. How do you know he hasn’t lost his family and given up hope? Well, what is his story?” I demanded.
Emily looked shamefaced, and Sami wriggled uncomfortably.
