I will never forget that horrifying night. Mr. Ahmad had told my father, if we don’t end up gathering 100 kilograms of scrap iron and waste, we would be fired. Father and I searched frantically, covering extra miles just to meet our quota. This work was all we had. There was no other option.
That night, Father grew hot with fever, coughing and turning red. I took him to a hospital, and they said he had contracted Coronavirus. Of course, I knew it was possible, but I couldn’t believe that he was sick. Three days later, my father died.
From that day forward, I grieved my father’s passing but was even more worried about how I could take care of my mother and sister. My mother had lost her job, so I was the sole supporter of my family. I could barely even provide food for them. We often went hungry, and I could hear the sound of my sister crying as we fell asleep.
The next day, the doorbell rang and our lives changed instantly. A stranger placed some bags of food in front of our door and said that they would be by our side. The food was enough to have hot meals for a month. I was overjoyed to have food for my family but even more thankful for the warmth and support of this generous benefactor.
