It was during the Korean War. The war dragged on without an end in sight. With Father, our breadwinner, taken away by the communists, Mother and I were alone, and I saw the rice in our wooden chest reaching toward the bottom. Mother rationed, and I, a fourteen year old boy, was hungry. Very hungry. Then one day, Mother invited our neighbor: a child and her mother whose husband went to fight the enemy. They were all in bones. We sat, each with a half filled bowl with rice porridge. We bowed our heads and prayed as Mother gave thanks. Is Mother going crazy? I thought. Sharing when we don’t have enough even for ourselves? When she worries about my not getting enough food for my growing body? A part of me was upset. But another part of me was very proud. Mother, I will be like you when I grow up. Always sharing.
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