I tore my shirt on the way home from the grocer today. It was already worn thin and covered with stains from all sorts of things--food and dirt and sweat, but I only have the one, and I was scared alive that Mama would tan my hide. I chose not to tell her, and hoped she wouldn't notice. I've already lost two buttons from the top of the shirt--must've popped off when I was running, or when I was in a hurry getting dressed for church. The buttons are long gone now, anyways. The others are all chipped, some most half off.

I asked Mama for a new shirt just last week, but she said we must make do, least for another few months. We haven't money for a new shirt, or proper shoes for me, or a new jacket for Papa, or a pretty dress like the type I've seen Mama look at longingly in the window of the tailor's, near the edge of town. Sometimes we haven't even money for heat.

I was most scared that Mama would tan me for ripping my shirt when we can't afford another, so I made up my mind to hide it for as long as I could and hope she wouldn't take mind.

When I arrived home, I stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and held still when I saw Mama, more out of fear than nerves. She was sitting at the table, one hand clutched around her belly and a look of pain on her face that scared the daylight out of me. She looked like she had a pain in her stomach as bad as the worst stomach ache I've ever had.

When I made a step into the room, she looked up and opened her mouth to say something, or least I think she made to say something, when the pain came back to haunt her and she doubled over, hugging her belly fierce.

It was only when she fell out of her chair and hit the floor with a thump, that her hand opened up and the can she had been holding rolled across the floor to me. I picked it up and immediately let it drop to the floor, the stink was so awful. It wasn't no wonder that Mama clutched her stomach and moaned so; the can smelt of meat gone bad. Real bad.