I had a rich friend growing up named Lily. We weren’t supposed to be friends, not really—at least not by the logic of small-town social divides. Her family had a fountain in their front yard, marble countertops, and a summer home they only used twice a year. Mine had a single rusty swing set, laminate tiles that peeled at the corners, and a calendar full of odd jobs to make ends meet.
Still, we clicked. At school, we sat beside each other during lunch. I shared my slightly smashed peanut butter sandwiches, and she traded little squares of imported chocolate her dad brought back from Tokyo or Vienna. Sometimes, she’d stay over at our house for dinner, and my mom—God bless her—would whip up something hearty and full of flavor: pasta with chunky meat sauce, or fried rice with vegetables that came straight from our modest garden.
Lily loved our food. She’d say things like, “It tastes like someone actually cared while cooking it,” and I’d always beam, like I’d done something right just by sitting next to her.
