21/07/2025
The cabin was already stifling, the lingering heat from the old cook stove settling like scalding water in the cramped one-room space with its low ceiling. After preparing a simple breakfast of water gravy, biscuits, and weak coffee, she gathered her four young children—each under five, with the baby less than a year old—and led them outside to seek relief in the cool shade of the solitary tree in their yard. Her gaze drifted toward the large house nearby. Though it belonged to family, she knew her little family would never be truly welcome there.
Her husband had gone inside that grand home, where he would be warmly greeted and served a far more generous breakfast—biscuits and jam, fried ham, and gravy made with milk. She hoped, silently, that he might bring some leftovers back for her and the children, but deep down she understood he would not ask, fully aware that they would be refused. Any extras were likely fed to the dogs. She bore the exclusion for herself, but it was her babies she worried for most—their hunger weighed heavily on her heart.
As the day wore on, her husband set out to find work, trudging miles over the mountain despite the scarcity of jobs during these harsh times. When he returned at dusk, she had washed the babies and fed them hoecakes accompanied by green beans and tomatoes from their garden. Without meat, the beans lacked flavour, but at least she still had some bacon grease to add a hint of richness. The flour and meal were nearly gone, and she dreaded the thought that bread would soon be a memory.
In this small cabin, caught between hope and hardship, her world revolved around the children’s survival—each day a quiet battle fought with love and determination in the face of relentless poverty...
