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"Is that all?"
I search her eyes for strength. "No, Momma."
"Well, where's the rest of it?"
I drop my gaze to the tattered hem of her apron. "I was hungry, Momma. I had the best carrots for myself." The lie ripples my breath as I loose the words.
"Selfish child!" She snatches the basket from my hand. The splintered willow rips across my skin. "Go upstairs. You've had your fill."
I move slowly, watch her quarter the already bite-sized morsels and gently drop them into the kettle. Then I step carefully, listening as she removes the soup bowls from the cupboard. I count as she places them on the pine table that Papa made the season before he fell sick. When I hear her set out the fifth bowl for herself, the churning in my gut that has turned from hunger to guilt turns again and comforts my sleep through the night.
END
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