It happened every day. As soon as she got home, Thảo—the youngest daughter of Mrs. Liên—would walk in with a pale face, clutching her stomach and saying she was starving. At first, Mrs. Liên thought maybe her child was just growing, and eating more was normal. But as the pattern continued, a suspicion began to stir in her heart.

“There’s rice, bread, and milk at school… why does she always say she’s hungry?” she wondered.

One afternoon, while Liên was setting the table, she heard her daughter rummaging in the kitchen, stuffing something quickly into her mouth. When Thảo looked up and saw her mother watching, she avoided her gaze and ran upstairs. Her small figure disappeared behind the wooden door, leaving Liên with a knot of unanswered questions.

That night, while the whole family slept, Liên lay awake, restless. She remembered the security camera installed on the side of the house, pointing toward the narrow alley where students usually passed. “Maybe I should check… it might give me an answer,” she thought.

The next day, after Thảo went out, Liên brewed a pot of tea and sat down at the computer. She rewound the footage a few days back. There was Thảo, carrying her heavy schoolbag. But instead of going straight inside, she stopped in the alley, pulled out a box of milk and some cakes from her bag.

What froze Liên’s heart was the next scene: a thin boy with worn, torn clothes timidly approached from behind. Thảo smiled and handed him all her food. The boy took it with trembling hands and bowed his head in thanks.

The camera didn’t record sound, but by reading her lips, Liên could tell her daughter said: “Eat, tomorrow I’ll share again.”

Liên sat in silence. The suspicion that had weighed on her melted away, replaced by a choking sense of pride and sorrow. Thảo wasn’t hungry because she lacked food—she was hungry because she had given it all to a stranger.

That afternoon, Liên pretended to wait by the door. Sure enough, Thảo stopped at the corner of the alley. Quietly, Liên followed. There was the same frail boy, curled up by a stained wall. When he saw Thảo, his eyes lit up. But before she could take out the food, Liên stepped forward.

“Give it to me,” she said, her voice firm but trembling. Startled, Thảo handed it over. Liên opened the bag and pulled out an extra lunchbox she had prepared that morning. “Here, child, eat this,” she said, handing it to the boy.

The boy froze, then quickly accepted it, his eyes reddening. Thảo looked at her mother with worry and guilt.

On the way home, she whispered, “I’m sorry, Mom… I just saw he was so hungry, and at school he never had anything to eat… I didn’t dare tell you because I was afraid you’d scold me.”

Liên gently squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Silly child, how could I scold you? But you must tell me, so I can help you help him.”

The next day, Liên found out that the boy’s name was Nam. His father had passed away early, and his mother worked far away in a factory, leaving him with a frail grandmother. Many days, Nam went to school on an empty stomach. Thảo had happened to meet him, and since then, had been sharing her food with him.

News spread in the class. At first, some kids laughed and teased, but soon they began secretly contributing snacks and milk cartons too. When the homeroom teacher found out, he was so moved that he launched a “Jar of Loving Rice” campaign for the whole class.

On the day the support was handed to Nam’s family, Liên stood beside Thảo, watching her daughter smile brightly. To her, Thảo was no longer the little girl who always whined about hunger—she had grown up in ways her mother never expected.

That night, Thảo whispered: “Mom, tomorrow I still want to bring extra food for him. Not because he’s hungry, but because… it makes me happy.”

Liên smiled, placing a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Do what you feel is right. Just remember, I’ll always be with you.”

From then on, in their small house at the end of the alley, every meal seemed warmer—not because of better dishes, but because hearts that knew how to share had grown together.