I was a really poor child. At thirteen, I had dinner at the residence of a classmate. People at the table kept glancing at me. The next day, when I got home from school, I was shocked to see my friend’s mom at my house. My mom’s cheeks were red. She looked at me and said, “We need to talk.”
I remember not having any idea what was going on. Ms. Allen, one of my friends’ mothers, was standing by the window and looked frightened and uncomfortable. I thought I must have done something wrong right immediately since I was shy. I tried to remember if I had been disrespectful or broken a plate by accident the night before.
My mom told me to sit down. After then, Ms. Allen began to speak softly. “I saw how you acted at dinner last night,” she said. I didn’t get why you wouldn’t look at anyone at first, but now I do: it’s because you don’t eat enough. You looked both guilty and hungry at the same time.
For a second, my ears were ringing, and I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I could only remember that people passed around a basket of warm bread, large slices of meat, and a variety of veggies. I couldn’t think about anything else because the supper was so excellent. I must have looked at the dishes like they were from another world.
My mom cleared her throat and said, “Ms. Allen wants to help us in some way.” She was still embarrassed.
My heart raced. I didn’t want any aid. I was done with giving things away for free and for a good cause. I thought Ms. Allen was really honest when I looked at her. She wasn’t acting like I was a lost dog. She seemed frightened, like she truly wanted to help. But I was still hurt by my pride.
She cautiously walked up to me. Would you like to eat dinner with me on a regular basis? You could even help me cook. It doesn’t have to be official. But I could tell you were happier, even if it was just for a little while, after eating a good dinner. I know that your house doesn’t always have enough.
I couldn’t quite figure out why my chest felt tight. I felt a little better. Part of me was ashamed. Suddenly, a small spark of interest appeared: cooking with Ms. Allen? That looked like it could be fun, maybe even empowering.
I looked at my mom, who was trying to blink away the tears in her eyes. “Only if you want to,” my mom said softly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you that much food.” Ms. Allen has generously asked you to come.
I breathed in deeply. I was 13 years old and felt ashamed, afraid of being criticized, and grateful for Ms. Allen’s generosity. I finally nodded and said, “Okay,” because I was hungry and wanted to learn something new. I’ll give it a shot.
From then on, I went to Ms. Allen’s house every Wednesday after school. I would assist her season the chicken, cut up the vegetables, and stir the soup. She would show me how to identify when spaghetti was done cooking or how to peel potatoes without losing half of them. Zara, my friend and Ms. Allen’s daughter, would come over sometimes and taunt me for looking serious when I wore an apron around my waist. But in general, it was a comforting routine, like a second home.
I remember being so scared on my first Wednesday that I almost forgot to ring the doorbell. But Ms. Allen said, “Welcome!” and opened the door before I could go. You’re right on time. I’ve prepared the onions. That was it; there was no big deal or mournful gathering. We simply started working.
I knew fairly soon that she was teaching me more than just how to cook. She taught me how to be proud of a job well done, how to share food, and how to be patient with other people. I learned that every time I stirred a pot and smelled something good that I had produced, I felt better about myself.
“Where do you want to be when you’re older?” Ms. Allen asked me a question one day after we had cooked some cookies. I paused. That was the easiest thing anyone had ever asked me. I responded quietly, “I don’t know.” “Maybe, in some way.”
“You can dream bigger than ‘somewhere,'” she added as she dried her hands on a dish towel. I think you already know that?
I shrugged. It’s hard to have big dreams when you can barely afford to eat most days. People like myself don’t generally have a choice.
She looked at me with a lot of thought. “Maybe that’s why you should have bigger dreams so you can choose a different path for your future.” After that, her eyes turned warm and she smiled. “Hey, you really know how to cook. You don’t only do as I say; you also taste the food, modify the spices, and decide if the sauce is too thick or too thin. That inclination isn’t in everyone.
I thought about what she said for days. Ms. Allen had made me a little notebook when I came back the second time. She told us to write down the recipes we try. Also, put down any thoughts you have. You never know what could happen.
So I did. And as time went on, the recipes we cooked together filled that journal. We made baked fish, stews, homemade pasta sauces, roasted vegetables, and even desserts like banana bread. I put down what we did after each meal. I tried things and asked questions. I thought about my life when I wasn’t cooking. I felt like I had a special gift for the first time in my life.
Things changed as time went on. My mom took odd jobs to save every penny she could. We had enough to get by, but we never became wealthy. And I started learning more and more about Ms. Allen. On the weekends, I ended myself taking care of Zara’s younger siblings. After huge family get-togethers, I helped Ms. Allen clean the kitchen. If I saw a good deal, I would sometimes stop by the market on my way home with groceries.
Ms. Allen called me aside not long after I turned sixteen and gave me a sealed envelope. When I opened it, I saw that it was a gift card for a culinary class in the area for adolescents who want to become chefs. She said, “I know this isn’t a big deal, but I think you’ll like it.” A local chef is teaching individuals how to work in a professional kitchen during the program.
I started to cry. I had never had a gift like that before, and I had never been informed that a professional cook could teach me something. I could hardly say thank you to her. But Ms. Allen waved her hand and smiled as if it didn’t matter. “Please promise me that you’ll teach me everything you learn.”
That workshop was a big deal. I found out how much I actually enjoy cooking. I met other kids who liked to try different foods. We gave each other tips, tried each other’s food, and made comments. I began to see a future in which I could, perhaps, become a chef. Or open your own little coffee shop. I also thought about teaching other kids, much like Ms. Allen did.
Ms. Allen helped me fill out an application for a culinary scholarship during my senior year of high school. I tried even though I thought I had little chance of success because I had nothing to lose. My mom, who had always been quiet and humble, suddenly became my biggest fan. After we clicked the submit button on that application, we waited. I checked my email every day after school, and my heart raced until I saw it one day.
I had gotten the money for school. I couldn’t believe it at all. I hurried to show my mom right away. After that, I knew I had to inform Ms. Allen. After we all rushed to her house, we hugged in the middle of her living room. Zara was jumping up and down, and Ms. Allen was crying. She held my hands tightly and said, “I knew you could do it.”
Not long after that, I went to cooking school. When I walked into the busy kitchen for my first session, I thought of the 13-year-old girl who had sat at Ms. Allen’s dinner table and was too shy and impressed to talk. One act of compassion, an invitation to cook, altered my whole life.
I opened a little restaurant in my hometown years later. People recognize this welcoming eatery for its fresh, home-cooked food. My mother likes to come over and see me work, but she still has trouble believing in it completely. Zara and Ms. Allen come over, and we laugh about how I used to cry every time I chopped an onion. I currently employ a few young people from the neighborhood, some of whom had difficult childhoods. I aim to give them the chance to learn something new that could help them find a way to do something they never would have thought of on their own.
I can see now that the night I spent at my classmate’s house for supper years ago changed my life. That small act of kindness and easy chance to learn gave me the strength to want more than what I was going through at the moment.
I’ve discovered that one act of kindness can make your life better. Sometimes you just need someone to believe in you and let you seat at the table, both literally and figuratively. There is no guilt when someone tries to help you out of the goodness of their heart. It is much more crucial to go the other way and be kind to them.
I hope this story makes you desire to help others or ask for help when you need it. When we open our hearts, life can surprise us in the most amazing ways. Thanks for taking the time to read this. If this story touched you, please tell someone who might need a reminder that even the little things can give people hope. Also, please remember to like this post so we may keep spreading these inspiring stories of kindness.