When I was growing up, my family was very poor. Food was carefully rationed, and you never ate the last of anything without asking. Lunch was usually a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich on day-old white bread, or, if we were lucky, a sandwich with only two thin slices of lunch meat.

When I was 11, I was invited to a friend’s house for lunch. I was amazed by their beautiful home and the table covered with different kinds of bread, meats, condiments, and fresh fruit. Thinking I was being careful, I made my sandwich with just one thick slice of ham because it was much larger than the meat we had at home.

My friend’s mom looked at my sandwich and exclaimed, “What kind of sandwich is that? You need to put more on it—that’s not enough!” I quietly explained that this was how we made sandwiches at home. She and the rest of the family were shocked, and before I left, they packed a care package filled with food for us.

When my parents found out what had happened, they were deeply embarrassed that I had revealed how poor we were. After that day, they never allowed me to visit my friend’s house again. It was a simple lunch, but one I have never forgotten.