J. Lo's Fanclub, New York, NY (2026)

11/29/2025

"A stepfather took his 10-year-old stepdaughter to the clinic; what the doctors found left them stunned.

It was past 10 AM when Michael Reynolds brought little Emily to the community clinic. She clung to his hand tightly, dressed in her favorite pink bathrobe, her small body trembling slightly, not from fear, but from a dull, persistent pain in her stomach that had lasted for days.

Michael, newly married to Emily’s mother, had only been in Emily’s life for seven months. Although she remained quiet around him, he had become fiercely protective of her. When she whimpered the night before, curled up on the sofa instead of playing with her toys, Michael knew something was wrong.

"Good morning, what brings you here today?" the nurse at the counter asked, looking at Emily sympathetically.

"She's been having stomach pain for almost a week," Michael replied. "It's gotten worse. At first, we thought it might be a virus, but... I'm worried."

The nurse nodded, scribbled notes, and led them to an examination room.

Inside, the walls were painted with faded jungle animals: a lion smiled next to a cartoon parrot. Emily sat on the exam table, looking small and pale.

Dr. Harris, a calm, middle-aged physician with a reputation for being thorough, entered shortly after.

"Hello, Emily," he said warmly, crouching down to her level. "I hear your tummy has been bothering you?"

Emily nodded shyly.

Michael stayed nearby, intently watching the doctor's face.

After a brief physical exam, Dr. Harris frowned. "Her abdomen feels a bit distended. Could be something gastrointestinal. I'd like to run some tests: bloodwork, maybe an ultrasound, just to be sure."

Michael instantly agreed.

An hour later, as Emily lay silently during the ultrasound, the technician's expression changed. She didn't say anything, but her eyes darted to the monitor and then back to Emily. She excused herself and returned moments later with Dr. Harris.

Michael stood in the corner, watching the silent exchange between them. Then Dr. Harris motioned for him to step out of the room.

"Is everything alright?" Michael asked immediately, tension seeping into his voice.

Dr. Harris hesitated. "We found something… unexpected."

Michael's stomach clenched. "What do you mean?"

The doctor looked him straight in the eye. "The ultrasound shows what appears to be... a developing fetus. Emily is pregnant."

The world seemed to stop. Michael stared at him, blinking, as if he had misheard.

"Excuse me?" he said in a choked voice.

"She is approximately 12 weeks along," Dr. Harris said gravely. "We need to report this to the proper authorities immediately. But first, we need to confirm some things. Do you know if Emily has ever... mentioned anything about someone hurting her?"

"No," Michael said hoarsely, feeling the air escape his lungs. "She's just a child. She... barely talks to anyone."

Dr. Harris's tone was gentle but firm. "We understand this is a shock. But this is now a matter of child protection. She will need support. And we will need to ask both you and her mother some questions."

Michael nodded slowly, numb.

They allowed him to sit with Emily again. She was still lying silently on the table, fiddling with the ties of her gown. Michael sat beside her, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Emily," he said softly. "The doctor says you have a baby inside you. Do you... understand what that means?"

Emily's fingers froze. She looked away, her eyes growing glassy.

"I'm not supposed to talk about it," she whispered.

Michael's blood ran cold. "Honey... who told you not to?"

She was silent for a long time. Then, barely audible: "He said no one would believe me."

Michael leaned in. "Who, Emily?"

Tears streamed from her eyes. She trembled as she whispered a name that twisted Michael's heart into a knot.

It wasn't a stranger. It wasn't a teacher. It wasn't a school friend.

It was someone much closer than he had feared.
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11/28/2025

During my sister's party, my mother suggested my pregnant wife should eat elsewhere so as not to "ruin" the atmosphere. She said, "She really isn't made for these kinds of events." My sister added, "She makes everyone uncomfortable." I remained silent, gently took my wife's hand, and we left without saying a word. They didn't know who was behind everything they thought they enjoyed… but they learned the hard way shortly after.

My name is David, and I am 34 years old. My wife, Sarah, is 28 and six months pregnant with our first child. This story is about family, respect, and what happens when some people forget where their comfort truly comes from.

Growing up, our family was not wealthy. My father died when I was sixteen, leaving us with a heavy burden of medical debt. My mother worked double shifts at the diner to support us, and I started taking small jobs as soon as I could. My sister Jessica, four years younger, had a somewhat easier life.

I financed my college education by working, and I eventually secured a good position in private equity. As my income increased, I took care of my family: five years ago, I paid off my mother's debt, leaving the house in my name for tax and inheritance reasons. When her arthritis worsened, I gave her a monthly allowance that covered all her expenses. When Jessica got engaged to Mark, a reliable man who works in IT, I completely financed her wedding, willingly.

But over the years, as my success grew, I noticed a change: they became accustomed to my support, viewing it as a right, not a gift. Even their attitude towards Sarah became demanding.

Sarah comes from a modest background and is a preschool teacher. She is sweet, intelligent, and respectful to everyone. But from day one, my mother and Jessica hinted that she wasn't good enough for me, criticizing the simplicity of her job and her origins. The pregnancy made things worse.

Last Saturday was Jessica and Mark's first wedding anniversary. My mother organized a celebratory dinner at Bella Vista, an elegant Italian restaurant downtown. I knew I would pay the bill, and I didn't mind.

We were seated at the table at 6 PM. Sarah looked beautiful in her dark blue dress, showing off her baby bump. In a place like that, a dinner for eight easily exceeds €800, but I told my mother to order whatever she wanted.

The awkwardness began when the waiter took the drink orders. Sarah requested sparkling water with a hint of lemon. My mother grimaced: "Oh, you can't drink anything fun anymore," she said, feigning cheerfulness, which sent a chill down my spine.

Jessica followed up: "You know, Sarah, I read that carbonated drinks aren't good for the baby." Sarah politely explained that her doctor had approved the sparkling water, but Jessica insisted: "Better to be cautious. A mother must sacrifice for her child." I saw Sarah's jaw tighten: she simply nodded and changed her order. First mistake.

The real scandal erupted when the main courses arrived. Sarah chose the seafood risotto. She ate half of it when, suddenly, she turned pale and excused herself to go to the bathroom. Pregnancy nausea can strike at any time, and she had been suffering from it for weeks. Upon returning, she felt better, but she told me she needed a break.

It was then that my mother blurted it out, loud enough for everyone to hear: "Sarah, if you're not feeling well, maybe you should eat in the bathroom. It's Jessica's special night, and we came here to dine properly."

An icy silence seized the place. Mark's parents were mortified. I felt anger building, but before I could intervene, my mother finished: "Pregnant women shouldn't stay at the table if they can't control themselves. It's uncomfortable for everyone."

At that moment, Jessica stood up, with a cruel smile: "Mom is right. You make everyone uncomfortable with your condition. You should have stayed home."

Tears welled up in Sarah's eyes, but she held back and began to apologize, which infuriated me even more: my wife was suffering from nausea, and they were lecturing her as if she were a burden.

I kept my calm. Without shouting, I smiled, stood up, walked over to her, and offered my hand. "Come on, love," I whispered. "Let's go home." She looked at me, stunned, and then relieved. I took her purse and the piece of cake she had brought, then addressed the table: "Please continue enjoying yourselves; I hope everything is to your liking."

We left.

In the car, Sarah burst into tears: "I'm sorry, David. I ruined Jessica's dinner." "Don't you dare apologize," I replied. "You did nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing."

I took her home, made her some tea, and she fell asleep at 10 PM, exhausted. Then I went to my study and started making calls. My mother and Jessica were unaware that no wealth falls from the sky: every transfer, every bill, every small pleasure, everything depended on me. If they thought they could treat my wife like that and continue enjoying my support, they were about to learn it the hard way.

Monday morning, I stopped the automatic transfers to my mother's account; I disconnected my credit card from the electricity and water bills; I informed the bank that I would no longer pay the loan for the house, which was in my name, and I put the house up for sale. For Jessica, I froze her joint account, canceled her car insurance, and closed the credit card I had given her.

I own the diner where my mother used to work, as well as the house that Jessica and Mark rented at a low price: I decided to sell the diner and raise the rent to market value.
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11/28/2025

"If your daughter can translate this contract, I'll double your salary," said the millionaire with contempt to the Black doorman, but unexpectedly the girl's talent surprised him.

"If your daughter can translate this contract, I'll double your salary."

The words dripped with arrogance from the lips of the millionaire real estate magnate Richard Coleman. Standing in the marble lobby of his Manhattan skyscraper, he had stopped at the security desk where Marcus Johnson, the doorman, was seated. Richard threw a thick folder onto the counter with the kind of disdain reserved for people he considered beneath him.

Marcus felt his chest tighten. He wasn't just a doorman: he was a father working two jobs to support his only daughter, Alicia Johnson, a high school junior with dreams of attending an Ivy League university. She often waited for him after school, sitting in the lobby with her backpack, reading books while he finished his shift.

That afternoon, Alicia had just arrived when Richard appeared. She had been quietly drawing in her notebook, headphones on. Richard's sharp voice cut through the air, immediately grabbing her attention.

The millionaire smirked. "This contract is in Mandarin Chinese, one of the most difficult languages in the world. My international partners expect it back tomorrow. If your daughter, this... high school kid, can even understand a single page, I will keep my word. But I don't think she can. And then, Johnson, maybe you'll stop daydreaming about your daughter's future and stick to reality."

Marcus's fists clenched beneath the desk, but before he could answer, Alicia stood up. Her voice was quiet but firm. "I can try," she said, meeting Richard's condescending gaze.

Richard raised an eyebrow, amused. "Go ahead, little girl. Surprise me."

Alicia opened the contract, her eyes scanning the dense text. To Richard's surprise, she didn't hesitate. She began to read aloud, and then fluidly translate into English. Page after page, she explained clauses about property rights, financial terms, and dispute resolution.

Richard's smug expression vanished. His sharp blue eyes widened as he realized she wasn't lying. This girl, this doorman's daughter, was translating a multimillion-dollar international contract as if she had been trained in corporate law.

Marcus looked at his daughter with quiet pride, his heart swelling. He had always known Alicia was talented, but seeing her stand her ground against one of the most powerful men in New York made him realize her talent was even more extraordinary than he had imagined.

When she finished, Alicia closed the folder and handed it back to Richard. Her voice was respectful but firm. "Sir, there are a few inconsistencies in the third section regarding tax obligations. You might want your legal team to review it again."

The entire lobby fell silent. Even Richard's chauffeur, who was standing nearby, looked stunned.

For the first time that evening, the millionaire had nothing to say.

To be continued in the comments.
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11/28/2025

Surgeon's daughter never walked in her life until a homeless boy said, "Let me try."

Dr. Eduardo Hernández watched his daughter Valeria through the glass of the physical therapy room at San Ángel Hospital in Mexico City, as she sat motionless in her special wheelchair.

At 2 and a half years old, the blonde girl had never taken a single step, and every consultation with the best specialists in the country brought the same disheartening diagnosis. It was then that he felt someone gently tugging at his white coat. Looking down, he saw a boy of approximately 4 years old with messy brown hair and worn clothes that looked like they had seen better days.

"Doctor, are you the blonde girl's daddy?" the little boy asked, pointing to Valeria. Eduardo was surprised by the question. How had this child gotten into the hospital unaccompanied? He was about to call security when the boy continued. "I can make her walk. I know how to help her." "Boy, you shouldn't be here alone. Where are your parents?" Eduardo replied, trying to maintain patience.

"I don't have parents, doctor, but I know things that can help your daughter. I learned by taking care of my little sister before she—before she went away." There was something in the child's seriousness that made Eduardo hesitate. Valeria, who always remained apathetic during the sessions, had turned toward where they were talking and was reaching out her little arms through the glass. "What's your name?" Eduardo asked, crouching down to the boy's height.

"My name is Mateo, doctor. I sleep on the bench in the plaza, across from the hospital, and I have been for two months. Every day I come and watch your daughter through the window." Eduardo's heart tightened—a child so small living on the street and yet worried about Valeria. "Mateo, what do you know about helping children who can't walk? My little sister was born that way too. My mom taught me some special exercises that made her better. She even moved her little legs before—before she went away." Eduardo felt a knot in his chest. He had already tried all the conventional treatments, spent fortunes on international specialists, and nothing worked. "What did I have to lose by letting this boy try?"

The voice of physical therapist Daniela resonated in the hallway. "Doctor Hernández. Valeria's session is over. No response today either." "Daniela, I want you to meet Mateo. He has some ideas about exercises for Valeria." The physical therapist looked the boy up and down with disdain. "Doctor, with all due respect, a street child has no medical knowledge to—" "Let me try, please," Mateo interrupted. "Just 5 minutes. If she doesn't respond, I promise to leave and not come back."

Dear listener, if you are enjoying the story, please remember to leave your like and especially subscribe to the channel. This helps those of us who are just starting out. Now, continuing.

Eduardo looked at Valeria, who for the first time in months was showing interest in something. The girl was clapping and smiling, looking at Mateo. "Five minutes," he finally said, "but I will be observing every movement." Mateo entered the physical therapy room and approached Valeria carefully. The girl watched him with curiosity. Her blue eyes sparkled in a way Eduardo hadn't seen in a long time. "Hello, princess," Mateo said softly. "Do you want to play with me?" Valeria babbled some incomprehensible words and extended her little arms toward the boy. Mateo sat on the floor next to the chair and began singing a soft melody while gently massaging the girl's feet. "What is he doing?" Daniela whispered to Eduardo.

"It looks... it looks like a reflexology technique," Eduardo replied, surprised. "Where would a 4-year-old boy learn that?" Mateo continued singing and massaging, alternating between Valeria's feet and legs. To everyone's amazement, the girl began to make sounds of pleasure, and her legs, normally rigid, seemed more relaxed. "Valeria has never reacted like this to any treatment," Eduardo murmured, moving closer.

"She likes music," Mateo explained without stopping his movements. "All children do. My mom said music wakes up parts of the body that were asleep." Little by little, something extraordinary began to happen...
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11/28/2025

For twenty years, his 89-year-old father-in-law lived under his roof, never contributing a cent for meals. But after the old man passed away, the son-in-law was astonished when a lawyer arrived with news that would change everything...

When the lawyer knocked on his door that rainy afternoon, Mark Sullivan thought it was a mistake. After all, he hadn't had any legal issues. But when the man in the charcoal gray suit introduced himself and said, "I'm here regarding the estate of your late father-in-law," Mark's first thought was: Inheritance? What inheritance?

Mark had lived with his father-in-law, Walter Benson, for nearly two decades. Walter moved in shortly after Mark married Emily. At the time, Walter was 69 — still spry and clear-minded, but living on a fixed, modest retirement income.

From the beginning, Mark noticed that Walter never offered money for groceries, utilities, or even occasional home repairs. At first, it didn't matter. Mark had a good job in logistics management, and Emily dismissed his concerns.

"Dad worked his whole life," she would say. "He just doesn't have much left. Let's not make him feel like a burden."

Mark agreed — in theory. But as the years passed, grocery prices rose, and Walter's needs quietly increased. He loved hearty breakfasts, fresh fruit, and quality cuts of meat. Mark estimated that feeding Walter alone added up to nearly $200 a month in expenses. Still, money was never discussed.

The years passed in a strange rhythm: Walter at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, Mark rushing off to work, and Emily balancing both with her constant patience. Walter didn't cook, but he was polite, tidy, and often shared stories from his youth.

"Back in '58," Walter would begin, "I hitchhiked from Chicago to Denver with only two dollars and a pocketknife..."

Mark listened, smiled, and tried not to think about the grocery bills. Walter's health began to decline in his late seventies. First came the arthritis, then shortness of breath. By 85, he needed rides to the doctor. Mark often left work early to take him, telling himself it was a family duty.

Emily took on the bulk of the care, but she never asked her father about money. She assumed there was nothing to discuss.

Then, one winter morning, Walter did not wake up. He passed away peacefully in his sleep, a gentle half-smile on his face.

The funeral was small, just a few relatives and old friends. Walter was never ostentatious; he was simply there, steady as a kitchen chair, until he wasn't.

After the burial, Mark thought life would return to normal — without the extra plate at dinner. That's why the lawyer's call, three weeks later, caught him completely off guard.

"Mr. Sullivan," the lawyer began, "I am in charge of the ex*****on of Walter Benson's will."

Mark blinked. "Will? Walter never mentioned anything about—" "That is common," the lawyer interrupted gently. "But I believe you will want to hear what he left for you."
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11/28/2025

The son insulted his mother at the wedding — then she took the microphone...

The banquet hall shone with crystal chandeliers and laughter. Everything was perfectly arranged. But one guest stood out: an elderly, fragile woman, with worn shoes and a faded dress.

That woman was María, the groom's mother.

She walked in silently, head held high, ignored by the guests and the staff. She stood at the back, her eyes fixed on her only son, Daniel.

When it was time for the speeches, Daniel raised his glass. He spoke of ambition and success, then looked at his mother and said:

"…To those who shamed me with their poverty and ignorance: thank you for showing me what I never want to be. I have turned the page. I am no longer that child in patched clothes. So, please—leave. You are not welcome here."

Absolute silence fell. The bride's smile faded. María trembled—not from rage, but from pain.

She could have left. Instead, she walked forward and asked the DJ for the microphone.

Her soft voice filled the room.

"Good evening. I hadn't planned to speak. I only came to witness my son's happiness."

She looked at Daniel, her voice firm.

"When you were born, the doctor said: 'He is strong.' I believed him. Your father left when you were three. I scrubbed floors and went without food so you could eat. Do you remember when I walked five kilometers in the rain to buy you medicine? The shoes I sewed over and over again?"

Her voice broke.

"I never asked for thanks. I only wanted your dreams to come true—and they have. You are a successful man, married and loved. But in your pursuit of success, do not forget your soul. Do not forget the hands that held you. The heart that broke when yours did."

The room was motionless. No one moved.

Then María did something unexpected...
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11/28/2025

A poor 12-year-old Black girl saved a millionaire on a plane after he had a stroke — but what he whispered to her next made her burst into tears...

Twelve-year-old Amara Johnson had never been on a plane before. Her family could barely afford rent in their small neighborhood in Atlanta, Georgia, but when her mother won two discounted tickets to visit an aunt in Chicago, it felt like a miracle. Amara's eyes shone with excitement as she held her mother's hand, boarding the flight that would unknowingly change both their lives forever.

Mid-journey, the quiet hum of the engines was interrupted by chaos. A man sitting two rows ahead suddenly slumped over in the aisle. His face went pale, his lips trembled. A flight attendant shouted: "We need medical assistance! Is there a doctor on board?"

No one responded.

Amara’s heart pounded. She had been obsessed with learning about medicine on YouTube: fascinated by videos on CPR, first aid, and even stroke symptoms. She didn't hesitate. While everyone else stood frozen, she rushed to the man's side. "He's having a stroke!" she shouted with confidence. Her small hands gently tilted his head as she checked for breathing. "He needs his head elevated, don't move his body much!" she instructed the surprised flight attendants.

Under her direction, they followed her instructions. Amara asked for water, a blanket, and for the pilot to be alerted for an emergency landing. She kept talking to the man, whispering: "Stay with me, sir. You're going to be okay."

Minutes later, the plane landed in Nashville, where paramedics rushed in. They stabilized the man—Richard Langford, a 62-year-old real estate millionaire from New York—and confirmed that Amara's quick action likely saved his life.

Everyone on the plane applauded her bravery, but when Richard regained consciousness, he asked in a weak whisper: "Where is the little girl who saved me?"

When Amara approached, nervous and shy, Richard took her hand. His next words would leave her trembling and weeping...

To be continued in the Comments.
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11/27/2025

Minutes before our guests rang the doorbell, my husband looked me over and, with a sneer of disgust, called me a "fat pig." I bit my tongue to keep from answering… but my next move left him stunned.

Five minutes before our guests arrived, as I was adjusting the last candle on the table, I felt my husband’s gaze pin me down like a cold pin. I turned, expecting a comment about the wine, the food, or the tidiness of the living room. But what came out of his mouth was a poisonous whisper that still burns in my memory.

—"Look at you... you look like a fat pig."— he said with a twisted smile, examining me up and down.

I froze. I felt the air grow thick, the shame rising in my throat like a hot mass. A moment before, I had felt beautiful: I was wearing a dark green dress I had bought with excitement, I had carefully styled my hair, I had prepared the perfect dinner to celebrate ten years of friendship with Marta and Julián. But his words tore everything down.

I swallowed. My first impulse was to yell at him, to demand respect, to throw all the years of swallowed silences back in his face. But something inside me stopped. It wasn't worth arguing with a man who no longer saw me, who no longer listened to me, who had turned cruel criticism into his daily way of speaking to me.

I took a deep breath. I said nothing.

His eyebrows arched, surprised that I didn't respond. Perhaps he expected tears, or a burst of rage that he could later use against me. But no. I simply continued setting the table. And in that silent gesture, he felt for the first time that something had changed.

When the doorbell rang, he went to open it, immediately recovering his charming smile, the one he only showed in public. Marta and Julián walked in, full of laughter and gifts, commenting on how good the food smelled. I greeted them with enthusiasm, perhaps a little more than usual, as if I needed to remind myself that I was still capable of feeling joy.

Dinner went on naturally… until Julián commented on how flattering my dress was. I noticed my husband clench his jaw. I smiled kindly, thanking him. And then, something unexpected happened: he, with a voice that was too loud and a forced laugh, said:

—"Well, if you guys like it, fine… because I think she overdid it a little with the food these past weeks"— he looked at Marta. —"You know how women are."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Marta frowned. Julián shifted in his seat. I kept smiling, but inside, something clicked.

That was the night I decided to act. Not to yell. Not to cry. To act.

And what I did in the following days left him completely speechless.

To be continued in the comments.

11/27/2025

A rich man pretended to be asleep with gold to test the poor maid’s daughter — but what the girl did shocked him!
“Rich people are often filled with suspicion, while poor people keep honesty in their hearts.”
He was a billionaire from a small town who had built his empire from nothing. After so many years in the business world, he had become accustomed to lies and deceit, familiar with people’s flattering glances. But because of this, he always had one question in his mind: “Is anyone truly honest with me?”
One evening, when he returned from a business trip, he found only a young maid in his vast mansion — the daughter of his longtime maid. She was just eighteen years old, with bright eyes, a sun-tanned face, and was a good, quiet girl. Since her mother had become seriously ill, she had taken her mother’s place and was taking care of the household.
Suddenly, a strange thought came to him to test the girl’s honesty. In his heart, everyone had a price and a desire. But would this poor girl be different?
That night, he pretended to be tired, lay down on the sofa, and closed his eyes as if he had fallen asleep. He deliberately left a thick wallet and some gold jewelry on the table — things that could tempt any poor person. He thought to himself, “If this girl touches them, I’ll immediately know her true nature.”
The room was silent. The ceiling fan slowly rotated. He heard the faint sound of the girl’s slippers from the kitchen, and when she passed the living room, she stopped. He opened his eyes slightly, his heart beating fast, waiting for the moment…
But what he saw shocked him...

11/27/2025

Poor girl tells paralyzed millionaire: "Your leftovers for a cure"... and everything changes.

— "Can I make you walk again?" she tells him. He laughed. But everything changed. Before starting, I'm curious. What time is it where you are? Day or night, I appreciate you being here.

The December snow fell softly outside the large windows of the Harrison mansion, but inside the luxurious dining room, Robert Harrison sat alone at a table built for 20. His expensive wheelchair made no sound as he rolled toward the window, watching the world beyond his prison of glass and steel.

At 52, Bob had everything money could buy, except the one thing he desired most. The ability to walk. It had been 20 years since the car accident that stole his legs. 20 years of the best medical care, experimental treatments, and false hopes. His $40 million fortune meant nothing when he couldn't even feel his own feet. The mansion echoed with emptiness.

His wife had left 15 years ago, unable to endure his bitterness. His friends had slowly drifted away, tired of his angry outbursts and dark moods. Even his mother, Elena, visited less frequently, her 78-year-old heart breaking each time she saw the vacant eyes of her son.

Bob wheeled away from his almost untouched dinner and headed to the study. Outside, through the frosted glass, he could see silhouettes of people hurrying along the sidewalk. Normal people, people who walked, people who took their legs for granted every day. A soft tapping at the service door caught his attention.

Who would be visiting on such a cold December night? The housekeeper had left hours ago, and Bob wasn't expecting anyone. The knocking continued, soft but insistent. Curiosity overcame his usual desire for solitude. He wheeled himself through the house, passing portraits of ancestors who could all walk, passing furniture arranged for someone who would never stand again.

The knocking stopped, but he opened the heavy door anyway. There, huddled against the cold, was the smallest person he had ever seen at his door. A girl no older than 6 with tangled brown hair and clothes that had seen better days. Her shoes had holes, and her thin jacket was nowhere near adequate for December in Massachusetts.

— "Sir," she said in a voice barely audible. "I'm very hungry."

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