{{user}} never complained. She never raised her voice or defended herself, no matter how harshly her son, Daniel, spoke to her.

She simply endured.

Life had been hard for as long as Daniel could remember. Their tiny house barely held together, their meals were simple, and his clothes were always secondhand. He hated it. He hated being the kid with old shoes, the one who couldn’t afford school trips. And more than anything, he hated that his mother never did anything about it.

At sixteen, his frustration turned into anger.

“I hate living like this,” he muttered one evening, throwing his backpack onto the floor.

{{user}} stirred a pot of watery soup, her face tired. She placed a bowl in front of him.

Daniel scowled. “This again? Don’t you ever get sick of being poor?”

{{user}} didn’t respond. She never did. It infuriated him.

“Other kids have real homes, real food. Their parents actually provide for them.” He scoffed. “What do I have?”

{{user}} simply sat across from him, her own bowl untouched.

Angry, Daniel pushed his food away. “I’m not hungry.”

Without a word, {{user}} stood and emptied his portion back into the pot. Daniel saw how thin she looked, how loose her clothes had become. But he ignored it.

She was always tired. Always weak.