Chapter 7 - A Spoonful of Truth
The sight of the boy hit Beatrice with the force of an oncoming train.
Leo wasn't a nameless sob story used by a beggar to get a cheap discount.
He was a frail, tiny human being whose collarbones showed clearly under his thin cotton shirt.
He looked at Beatrice, then down at the brown paper bags in her arms, his dull eyes lighting up with genuine awe.
“Did the angel bring dinner, Grandma?” Leo asked in a squeaky, congested voice.
Beatrice froze on the top step, the heavy bags slipping an inch in her grip.
An angel.
The word felt like acid pouring over her soul.
Just twenty minutes ago, she had laughed in this boy’s grandmother’s face, telling her to starve if she couldn't afford retail prices.
Martha hurried past Beatrice, kneeling down on the cold porch to wrap her arms around the shivering child.
“Yes, sweetheart,” Martha whispered into his feverish hair.
“We have everything we need to make you strong again.”
Arthur followed them inside, ducking his head under the low doorframe.
The interior of the house was spotless but painfully bare; an old radiator clanked against the wall, fighting a losing battle against the drafty floorboards.
Beatrice set the heavy grocery bags on a small laminate kitchen table held steady with folded cardboard under one leg.
Her arms burned with exhaustion, and her fingers were red and stiff from carrying the weight.
“Go on,” Arthur said quietly, leaning against the kitchen doorway.
“Don’t just stand there like an ornament. Unpack the food.”
Beatrice looked around the tiny kitchen, finding no luxury appliances, no marble countertops, and no high-end gadgets.
There was only a vintage gas stove and a chipped porcelain sink.
She unpacked the potatoes, the carrots, and the giant turkey, placing each item carefully onto the clean counter.
Martha washed her hands, tied a faded floral apron around her waist, and lifted a heavy stockpot onto the stove burner.
“I’ll cut the vegetables,” Beatrice suddenly blurted out, surprising even herself.
Arthur raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest without saying a word.
Martha turned, offering a gentle, forgiving smile that made Beatrice feel smaller than an ant.
“There’s a cutting board right beside the bread box, dear,” Martha said softly.
Beatrice took off her torn camel coat, revealing her designer silk blouse underneath.
She picked up a heavy chef’s knife, her hands trembling as she began chopping the yellow onions.
Within seconds, the sharp onion fumes hit her eyes, mixing with real, hot tears that she could no longer hold back.
She chopped through the burning sting, letting the salty drops fall freely onto the wooden board.
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For the first time in twenty-four years, Beatrice Sterling wasn't crying because she didn't get her way.
She was crying because she finally saw who she truly was.
