Reporter’s Notebook: Dinner plans take unexpected turn

“What’s for dinner?”

I’ll admit, sometimes that phrase tweaks me, especially when I’m still working at 6 p.m. I do cook most nights, but we fall back on takeout on an as-needed basis.

On this night, my younger son was in his music lesson and the older one was asleep on the couch as I watched a live stream and took notes at the kitchen table. My husband was in the garage, cleaning. I was caught in a cycle of “one more thing-ing,” i.e. procrastinating, switching into home mode because lately I hate everything we eat for dinner.

As my house throbbed with bass lines, I decided it was time to be done. I closed up my computer and went out to the garage to see if my husband could deliver a dinner epiphany.

Mussels almost clinched it, but we decided it would take too long to cook and was too messy. After we finally talked that all the way through, we decided to take a ride to the grocery store to look at food and get ideas in a last-ditch attempt at a home-cooked meal. The youngest came along since his lesson was done.

We parked on the far side of the lot and headed inside. I trailed behind, answering text messages and generally being distracted by my phone. I noticed a trio of young teens sitting on the curb and smiled at them as I passed. They were eating fruit cups and joking with each other in Spanish.

When I caught up to my crew, my husband asked if I saw the kids outside. I said yes.

“They had a sign. They’re asking for food,” he said.

I went into mom mode immediately, turned around and went straight over to the group. When I got closer I could read the sign. On a piece of cardboard, in English, it said they were traveling and asked for food.

“Please help us,” it said. I waved to them as I approached and asked what kind of food they wanted. My Spanish is basic, and we ended up using Google translate so they understood exactly what I was getting at.

“Esta lista?” I asked the girl as she held the phone up to me. She nodded and I repeated my question. “What specific food would you like?”

As soon as the app finished the girl said “chicken” in English and I gave her a thumbs up.

I went back inside with a plan: Get some chicken and drinks for these kids. At the hot food counter there were containers of nuggets, I picked up three and headed to the checkout while my family deliberated on our own dinner. I grabbed three bottles of iced tea from the cold case by the register and checked out. I delivered the food, and they thanked me and dug in, as I would expect any group of hungry kids to do. I smiled and waved and went back to my family. My older son turned 16 on Monday. He lifts weights, talks to girls and goes to work. He’ll start driving soon. He is purposeful and determined. I feel the weight of him stepping into adulthood like a flood against my heart.

My younger son turns 13 next month. He’s almost as tall as me. He is intensely loyal and loves fiercely. The boys are as precious as the day they were put in my arms.

I don’t know the story of how those three teens came to be sitting on the curb in front of the grocery store. I don’t know where they went. After I gave them their food, they went to the other side of the parking lot to sit under a tree and eat. I worry for them, even now, as I write this. I hope they are safe. I hope their mothers know where they are. I hope whoever left them in the parking lot is taking care of them.

I wish I could have learned where they were going, if they had somewhere safe to stay. Give them shelter if they needed it. Do all the mom things I could for them. In the end, we called a local aid agency, but no one was there. We left a message and went home, at a loss for how to help them further.

I can’t do much about most things, but I can choose to treat someone else’s kids the way I would want someone to treat my children if they were far from me.

Amanda Olsen is a staff writer for Times Review Media Group. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Southampton College.