Sometimes Gabriel received baked chicken while my little brother and I ate thin broth soup.
Sometimes he got fresh bread while Mom claimed she was not hungry at all.
I watched from the living room window as Gabriel accepted everything with both hands, always thanking her as if she had saved his life.
I felt resentment brewing in my chest every single day because I could not understand why a stranger deserved more than her own children.
Then one Saturday, I found Mom carrying a fresh apple pie toward the back door, warm enough to fog its glass cover.
“Is that for dinner tonight?” I asked, already smiling because apple pie was my favorite dessert that Mom still occasionally baked.
Mom shifted the baking dish against her hip and deliberately avoided my eyes.
“It is for Gabriel, and there is vegetable soup waiting on the stove for us,” Mom said softly.
