It was early evening, and a soft drizzle was falling. Mrs. Turner walked slowly along the dirt path, leaning heavily on her cane. Slung over her shoulder was an old, faded cloth bag holding a few papers and a small amount of money—barely enough for a simple piece of bread.
She was seventy years old. Her legs trembled with each step, but that day she had made up her mind—she had to go. She needed to see her son, Daniel, the child she had raised with all her love and sacrifice.
There had been nothing left to eat at home for days. Hunger had drained her strength. She had no choice but to ask her son for a little help.
Daniel now owned a hardware store. He lived comfortably—a large house, a nice car, all the conveniences. Mrs. Turner believed that no matter how busy he was, he wouldn’t let his own mother go hungry.
When she arrived, she stopped in front of the tall iron gate and rang the bell. The sharp “ting ting” echoed. After a moment, the door opened. A young woman—Daniel’s wife—looked her up and down before speaking in a distant tone:
