At nineteen, I was hustling through long hours as a food delivery rider, driving an old, noisy scooter that sounded like it could fall apart any second. Each shift felt the same—ringing doorbells, quick handoffs, forced smiles—but one delivery has stayed with me ever since.
It was late, almost the end of my shift, when I arrived at a rundown apartment building. The lights in the hallway flickered as I walked upstairs, holding a small pizza box. I knocked on the door.
It opened slowly.
A woman stood there, her eyes swollen and red, as if she had been crying for a long time. Two young children stood behind her, peeking out quietly. They said nothing, just fixed their gaze on the pizza in my hand with a kind of silent hunger that hit me hard.
