Chapter 2: Hunger That Never Fades

After my parents divorced, I was left alone at eight years old in a crumbling house on the hill outside Maple Heights.

The shingles curled on the roof, the paint peeled off in wide, sad strips, and the front steps creaked with every touch. Maple Heights sat below me, neat streets with trimmed hedges and porch flags, but up here it was wild and lonely.

No one cared about me.

Neighbors mostly avoided my house, eyes sliding away when I waved or called hello. Once, old Mrs. Drake left a bag of bread on the porch, but when I tried to thank her she pretended not to hear. The town's kindness dried up quick when the gossip spread.

I could go days without washing my hair.

My hair would tangle and snarl, greasy from the wood smoke and summer sweat. Sometimes I'd run my hands through it, flinching at the knots, but who was there to tell me to get in the shower? Who would care if I showed up at school looking like a scarecrow?

I could roll around in the dirt.

I dug holes in the yard, smeared mud on my arms like war paint, and sometimes just lay in the grass watching the clouds. If I got cuts or scrapes, I'd dab at them with spit and keep going.

I could climb tall oaks to pick wild apples.

I'd shinny up the thickest branches, bark rough under my palms, and toss down apples, some wormy, some sweet as sugar. The apples never tasted as good as the ones from the store, but eating them up there, with the wind in my hair, felt like freedom.

I could swim all the way to the deepest, most dangerous part of the creek.

I’d strip down to my shorts and jump in, letting the current tug at me. The water was icy, even in July, and the bottom was slick with moss and sharp rocks. Sometimes my feet would cramp, but I never called for help. Nobody would come anyway.

My friends were so jealous: "Man, I wish my folks just left me alone for once. You’re so lucky, Jen."

They said it like a wish, not knowing what it really meant. To them, freedom meant no rules, but to me, it tasted mostly like hunger and emptiness.

"If I came home covered in mud, my mom would ground me for a month."

Their moms would run hot baths and scrub their skin raw, fussing the whole time. They'd mutter about laundry and ruined shoes, but at least they cared enough to notice.

"My mom won't even let me near the river."

They'd say it with a kind of pride, like being protected was some terrible burden. But sometimes, I’d hear longing in their voices, wishing for the wildness I carried alone.

…

Dusk fell, and the smell of dinner drifted up from every house.

The air was thick with barbecue smoke and the sweet scent of cornbread, mashed potatoes, pot roast. My stomach growled, echoing the clang of pots and the laughter that floated up from the open windows below.

Shouts echoed through the neighborhood:

"Tommy, where did you run off to?"

A screen door banged. The sound of sneakers on blacktop followed by a shriek of laughter as Tommy darted through his yard, dodging his mom’s playful swat.

"Brady, get back here and eat!"

Brady’s dad’s voice carried all the way up the hill, deep and tired, but there was love in the way he called.

"Maddie, dinner's ready!"

A little girl’s giggle rang out, her pink sneakers flashing as she skipped up her porch steps.

…

They all had to go home.

I tilted my head, watching Brady get chased around the yard by Aunt Linda with a broom, feeling jealous.

She swung the broom, her face equal parts stern and amused. "You just ripped a huge hole in your new jeans! Are you trying to make me lose my mind?"

He ran away howling, but still glared at me: "Don't just stand there laughing at me."

I kicked stones all the way back to my house up the hill.

The gravel crunched under my sneakers. My shadow stretched long behind me, the hilltop breeze cold even in summer. Every step felt heavier, like gravity was stronger up here.

Started a fire to cook.

The house was chilly, so I knelt by the old Franklin stove, hands shaking as I tried to strike a match. The kindling snapped and caught, the flames crackling to life.

I put in too much firewood, and the fire was too strong.

The flames leapt up, licking at the sides of the pot. I squinted into the orange glow, trying to judge if it was safe, but hunger made me careless.

The mac and cheese burned again.

The acrid smoke stung my eyes, and the fire alarm’s shrill wail made me want to crawl out of my own skin. The smell of scorched noodles filled the kitchen, bitter and sharp. Black crust clung to the bottom of the pot, smoke curling up to the ceiling, setting off the ancient fire alarm. I coughed and waved a towel at it.

Panicking, I raked the blazing logs out.

The poker slipped from my sweaty grip, sending sparks skittering across the cracked linoleum. I stomped them out with my bare foot, cursing under my breath.

A piece of hot charcoal fell onto the top of my foot. I screamed, "Mom..."

The pain shot up my leg, searing and bright. I looked around, desperate, but the house was empty. My voice bounced off the walls, hollow.

My cry was swallowed by the wind rolling down the hill.

Outside, the trees swayed. Somewhere, a dog barked. My voice faded, lost in the night.

Only silence remained.

Oh…

I forgot.

I no longer had a mother by my side.

Actually, even if she were here,

She would just yell at me for being useless, for not even being able to handle something so simple.

Her voice would echo in my head, sharp and disappointed: "Jenny, can't you do anything right?" That memory stung worse than the burn.

A big blister formed on the top of my foot.

The skin bubbled and throbbed. Tears blurred my vision as I hobbled to the bathroom, searching for something to ease the sting. There were no Band-Aids, just an old sewing kit and a box of baking soda.

I gritted my teeth, used a sewing needle to pierce the skin, squeezed out the pus, tore off the scab, and sprinkled some baking soda on the wound.

The pain was sharp and clean, a fiery ache that forced my mind to focus. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, shoulders shaking. I tried to remember what the school nurse had said about cleaning wounds, but it was all a blur.

I sweated a lot.

It hurt pretty bad.

But it wasn't as bad as the time Dad got drunk and jabbed my lower back with a broom handle.

That memory always floated up when things got hard. The fear, the heat of his anger, the way I flinched away, only to be told it was my fault for making him mad.

The mac and cheese was still burnt.

There was too much salt in the scrambled eggs—it was full of holes, brown, and sour.

After all that, I was starving.

My belly cramped with hunger. I sat at the chipped Formica table, staring at the mess, wishing for a drive-thru burger or just a glass of cold milk.

I didn't care about the burn. I shoveled big mouthfuls into my mouth.

I ate like the world might end, like someone would burst in and snatch the food away. The burnt bits scraped my throat, but I hardly noticed.

My tongue was scalded numb.

After wolfing down a bowl, I went to the kitchen for a second helping.

The pasta was packed tight, like a brick.

It clung to the spoon, heavy and sticky. I had to jab at it to break it apart.

Back at the table, I noticed the eggs hadn't gone down at all.

The same sad mess, congealing in the cold air. I stared at the plate, wondering why I even bothered making extra.

Sigh.

I forgot again.

No one would limit how much I ate anymore.

No one would scold me for eating like a pig.

No one would sweep all the dishes off the table when I was serving food.

I could…

eat slowly now.

That night, I sat on the front steps with my bowl.

The stars flickered through the branches. Crickets sang in the weeds, the wind rustled, and the world felt big and empty. My knees pressed to my chest, I balanced the bowl in my lap, eating slowly for once.

One bite at a time, I finished the burnt, bitter, and sour dinner.

My belly was about to burst.

But I still felt hungry.

When I was little, I didn't understand. I thought eating more could fill the hunger.

But actually, what made me feel hungry then wasn't my stomach, but my soul.

Every kid's soul needs a lot of love to grow.

No one loved me.

So, when I was young, my soul was like a starving glutton—never able to get enough.

Living alone was hard.

Sometimes I wondered if the wind knew my name, if the trees whispered about me the way people did. I wished for someone to wrap me in a warm blanket, to tuck me in and say goodnight. But even in my wildest dreams, I always woke up alone.