Chapter 7: The Ailing Grandmother

As the sun melted into the horizon, its final light spilling over the fields in hues of burnt orange and dusky rose, Mark found himself lingering by the doorway, watching Isabelle's delicate face. Her smile, though radiant, barely masked the fragility beneath. The girl's frame was so slight, her limbs so thin, that her large, luminous eyes seemed almost too big for her face.

It wasn't just her. The whole village bore the same gaunt look—the unmistakable touch of deprivation. Earlier that afternoon, Mark had passed by a cluster of children playing beneath the towering oaks. Their laughter, high and unburdened, rang through the air, yet their appearances told a different story. Their clothes, mere patchworks of fabric held together by sheer will, hung loose on their wiry frames. The youngest among them wore nothing at all, their ribs pressing against taut, sun-darkened skin.

In these times, when even the strongest men struggled to earn enough to keep hunger at bay, what hope was there for the children?

A soft shuffle of footsteps behind him. He turned.

Mary Thompson emerged from the dim glow of the kitchen, cradling a modest plate. The aroma of warm cornmeal clung faintly to the cool air, though it was a humble scent—one that barely stirred the stomach. Mark's eyes flicked to the contents: three cornmeal buns, their surfaces slightly rough and darkened from the fire, accompanied by a meager serving of pickled radishes.

For a moment, he thought the meal was for him. Then Mary's voice, gentle yet laced with quiet insistence, broke through the hush of the evening.

"Mack, take these to your grandmother. Sit with her. Eat with her. You know how much she worries over you, especially after the rumors today."

Mark hesitated. A swirl of emotions welled up, tangled between memory and obligation.

His grandmother had always adored him—perhaps because he reminded her of Will, the youngest of her sons, the one she had cherished most. Mark could still recall her peculiar ways of showing affection, the way she had once set aside a single molasses cookie for him, even when none of the other grandchildren received a crumb. She had always had a soft spot for him, and now, in her old age, it seemed that sentiment had only deepened.

Mary's voice, quieter now, pulled him from his thoughts.

"Go on, Mack. You know how she is."

As he stepped toward the gate, he risked one last glance back. His mother stood in the fading light, rubbing her eyes, though whether from fatigue or unspoken worry, he could not tell.

The path through the woods was familiar, a well-worn trail edged with gnarled roots and whispering leaves. Shadows stretched long and thin as twilight settled in, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth.

His grandmother's home was not far—just beyond the trees, where two adobe houses sat huddled together within a weary, sagging fence. Though the place stood apart from the rest of the village, it was never truly abandoned. Family still came. Neighbors still passed by. But solitude had crept in after his grandfather's passing last year, and now, each of the remaining sons took turns caring for the old woman, tending to her needs in ten-day cycles.

As Mark neared the gate, he spotted two figures on the porch.

His grandmother, small and fragile as a bird, sat beside Clyde Thompson, her second-born son. The wooden bench beneath them creaked as Clyde shifted, rising to meet Mark with a scrutinizing gaze.

"Well now, what kind of mischief have you been stirring up today?" Clyde's tone was gruff, though not unkind.

Mark managed a wry smile. "Nothing, second uncle. Mara Hock's tales are just that—tales."

Clyde grunted, unconvinced, but said no more.

Then came a softer voice, trembling with both urgency and relief.

"Mack, is that you? You nearly frightened me to death! Come closer, let me see you."

His grandmother struggled to rise, leaning heavily on her cane. Two figures from inside the house rushed forward to steady her, their movements careful, reverent.

Mark's breath caught as he took in the sight of her. She had always been small, but now she seemed even tinier, as though time itself had been whittling her down. Her black cotton garments, carefully mended but threadbare, clung loosely to her frail frame. A white scarf covered her silvered hair, but it was the swelling—around her ankles, her face—that struck him most.

Malnutrition.

The knowledge settled in his chest like a stone.

Still, she smiled at him, a hand reaching up to pat his face, her touch as light as falling leaves.

"Are you well, little one? I heard… I heard you were acting out. Don't scare your poor mother like that. Think of your parents, Mack."

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I'm fine, Grandma. Just village gossip. But you—have you eaten yet? Come, sit. Let's eat together."

She shook her head, her expression a blend of affection and quiet refusal.

"Your mother is too kind. But I'm not hungry, child. Take it back for Bella—she needs it more than I do."

Mark crouched beside her, setting the plate down on a worn wooden table. "Even if I'm not hungry, I need to eat. Come on, keep me company, at least?"

For a moment, her gaze searched his, warring between self-denial and the simple love of a grandmother unwilling to refuse her grandson's request. Then, with a weary sigh, she relented.

"Alright, but only if you eat too."

Mark grinned, but there was a sadness beneath it.

He watched as she took a small, hesitant bite of the bun. The sight twisted something deep inside him—this woman, who had once been so strong, now reduced to mere scraps of sustenance. He had always known hunger, had always seen it, but never had it felt so profoundly wrong as it did now.

"Grandma, you're weak because you don't eat enough. You know, at school, they taught us about nutrition. We can't just survive—we have to take care of ourselves, too."

Her lips twitched into a fragile smile. "Oh, listen to you, talking all smart. The anchor of the family, am I? I'm just an old woman, Mack. Nothing more."

From his spot on the porch, Clyde let out a soft chuckle. "Mom, don't argue with the boy. You know he's right."

Mark bit into his own bun, forcing himself to eat alongside her, coaxing her into doing the same. They spoke of small things—of school, of old family stories, of fleeting joys from years long past. The night deepened, and with it, an unspoken understanding.

By the time Clyde finally said, "Alright, Mack. It's getting dark. Let's get going," Mark knew he had done what he could.

As they rose, Clyde turned to his mother, voice gentle but firm. "Eat the rest tomorrow. No more skipping meals."

She nodded, though her eyes flickered with the same quiet resignation Mark had seen in so many elders before her.

And as he walked home, Mark's mind churned with a resolve as steadfast as the stars above.

This world was cruel, but love—love was resilient.

And in this time of scarcity, even the smallest acts of kindness were enough to keep that love alive.