The mother—Marie—is trying to buy rice while her three kids hang off her skirt, and the vendor is shaking his head because she doesn’t have enough money. The kids are young, maybe five, seven, and nine, all with dark skin and bright eyes and clothes that have been washed so many times the colors are fading.
I watch Marie count out coins twice, her face tight with frustration, and before I can stop myself, I step forward. “I’ll pay the difference,” I say.
Marie looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. Helena’s hand tightens on my arm in warning, but I ignore her. The vendor shrugs, takes my money, and hands Marie the bag of rice.
She stares at me for a long moment, then nods once. “Thank you.” Her voice is soft, accented, and I can see the pride it costs her to accept help from a stranger.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
But it’s the first useful thing I’ve done in a month.
After that, I start watching for them. The Baptistes live in a small house near the edge of the village, close enough to the compound that I can see it from my balcony if I lean over the railing. The father—Thomas—goes out on one of the fishing boats every morning before sunrise. Marie works as a house cleaner for wealthier families, and the kids run wild when they’re not in school.
The oldest is a girl named Asha. She’s quiet, serious, with her mother’s eyes and a habit of watching everything like she’s cataloging it for later. The middle child is a boy named Marcus who never stops moving. The youngest is another girl, Celine, with a gap-toothed smile, who latches onto anyone who shows her kindness.
I start bringing them things. Nothing big at first. An extra loaf of bread from the compound kitchen. Some fruit that Helena bought, that we won’t eat before it spoils. A bag of rice, when I see Marie counting coins again at the market.
Then it becomes more. Clothes I’m not wearing. Books in English that the kids can’t read yet, but Asha wants to learn from. A toy car for Marcus that I found in one of the compoundstorage rooms. A doll for Celine with yellow hair and a blue dress.
Helena notices after two weeks. “The pantry is running low,” she says one morning while we’re having breakfast on the balcony. Her tone is carefully neutral, but I can hear the question underneath.
“Is it?”
“We go through food faster than we should. Supplies disappearing.”
I take a sip of my coffee and don’t answer.
Helena sets down her fork and looks me directly in the eye. “I know you’ve been giving things to the Baptiste family.”
“They need it more than we do.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“The point is that we have a budget. The point is that if you keep doing this, we’re going to run out, and then I’ll have to explain to your uncle why his niece is starving herself to feed strangers.”
“I’m not starving.”
“Not yet.”
We stare at each other across the table. The ocean breeze makes the curtains flutter, and somewhere down in the village, I can hear children laughing.
“They have three kids,” I say quietly. “Thomas works fourteen-hour days on the fishing boats and barely makes enough to coverrent. Marie cleans houses for pennies. The kids are hungry, Helena. I can see it in their faces.”
“That’s not your responsibility.”
“Maybe not. But I’m not doing anything else.”
Helena’s expression softens slightly. “I’m not saying stop. I’m saying be careful. Your uncle finds out you’re depleting resources to help locals, he’s not going to be pleased.”
“Victor’s never pleased.”
“Fair point.”
She goes back to her breakfast, and I know the conversation is over. She won’t stop me, but she also won’t help. It’s the balance we’ve found in the last month—Helena is kind but firm, sympathetic but loyal to the family first.
I’m okay with that. It’s more than I expected.
