I Make Too Much for Government Assistance, So Community Feeds My Family
After my divorce, my financial life was turned upside down, but the people who love me refused to let me and my daughter go hungry
On Wednesdays, I take my afternoon team meeting on my phone so that I can stand in line at the Y’s food pantry.
I shuffle my feet and try not to make eye contact with the other people who are here 30 minutes or an hour early so that we can be the first ones inside. By the time the doors open at 3 p.m., the line will be through the lobby all the way to the sidewalk just past the entrance.
There are rules to how much you can take, but the fresh food is always what goes first. That’s why I show up so early. My toddler, like most children, is obsessed with fruit. But she also likes to snack on raw veggies, and I like for her to have some things that didn’t come out of a can or a box. Sometimes, depending on what’s in stock, I can even get proteins, a huge weight off my weekly budget.
“And that’s all I have for online education,” my coworker chirps through my earbud.
One of the first things I did after my divorce was look into social assistance programs. My pay is too high to qualify for SNAP. I don’t receive child support, though I have custody 50 percent of the time. I have a full-time job with steady pay and freelance to supplement my income. I offer photography services for a fee. For most of the first year post-divorce, I worked in retail in the evenings I didn’t have my kiddo, but I had to give it up after the constant barrage of cruel treatment by customers angered by rising prices and inflation deeply impacted my mental health.
I learned that all the government cares about is your gross income. They don’t care about how many bills you have and how little is left over after all those bills are paid.
“Okay, thanks, everyone! Have a great rest of your week, and we’ll be in touch on Slack.” I hang up without speaking, in case my coworkers can hear the buzz of other voices in the background.
The program leader steps to the front of the line, keys in hand to open the food bank for the day. We all snap to attention, our empty bags rattling in unison.
When I meal prep for the week, I do so with as much precision as possible. I know how many meals I can stretch the groceries into, the exact portion sizes that will get us through to the next week.
“Mama, wha’chu eating?” My toddler’s fingers appear on the edge of my bowl. We are eating the same thing, and I know she knows this, but I also know this is her way of asking for more.
“Still hungry?” I ask.
“Mm!”
“Bring your bowl, Bug.”
She comes over, setting her bowl gently on the couch next to me. I spoon out noodles and vegetables and imitation crab until her bowl is refilled.
“Thanks!” She takes her food back to her table and sits. We’re watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse tonight.
I look down at my bowl, now half empty. I will do this and more for her, if she needs me to.
It won’t always be this way, I remind myself. This is just the season you’re in.
I spoon the food into my mouth and watch my kid do the Hot Dog Dance, trying to ignore the void in my gut that’s only partially hunger.
“You’re always complaining about money, but I know you eat at McDonald’s once a week,” my ex says.
If you’re having money problems, it’s your own fault, is what I hear.
Deep breaths, I remind myself. He makes three times my salary, and currently lives with his parents, who don’t charge him any bills. Every week, he and our child eat avocado toast with smoked salmon for lunches. In just the last year, he took himself on vacation to Iceland, several Caribbean islands, and Morocco, where he ate food that I have only seen on travel YouTube channels. If he wanted to, he could hire a personal chef, and it wouldn’t even make a dent in his monthly budget.
How do you explain to someone like that that sometimes, the $15 you spend on fast food is worth the hit it takes to your finances? That when you can’t justify the cost of going to the movies or bowling or out to the bar, one greasy burger and soggy French fries are a luxury, a rush of serotonin that makes the rest of it feel okay for a while.
“I get tired of eating mac and cheese and ramen the weeks I’m home alone,” I tell him, somewhat flippantly. I just want the conversation to be over.
He’s aghast. “That stuff is terrible for you. You’re going to regret eating that in 20 years.”
I watch our kid shriek with laughter on the playground slide. Deep breaths.
“I’m doing what I can right now,” I say.
One of my best friends back home in Pennsylvania goes to a church’s food bank where she can get everything from chicken thighs to Doritos to frozen vegetables and dried beans.
“I’m going again this Friday,” she texts me. “Send me a list of what you need, and I’ll get what I can and send it along with your parents when they come to visit next.”
I close my eyes and take a few breaths. Bluey and Bingo are getting into mischief on the living room TV, and my toddler is more interested in sitting at her table there and coloring than watching me make butter chicken. My ex not-so-casually offered to buy the chicken thighs on a dual grocery run we did last week. The brown rice I’m serving it with was left in my freezer by a friend after she came for an overnight visit. Small mercies everywhere. My kid is busy in her own world, but I don’t want to cry anyway, just in case.
“I’ll go through my pantry and let you know tomorrow?” I text back.
“Take your time,” she responds. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
When my mom comes down from Pennsylvania to visit, she brings freezer bags full of food and then spends the entire week cooking. I feel anxious, making myself scarce when she’s in the kitchen. It’s like I’m caught between the child who loves being cared for and the adult who feels guilty they’re putting their mother to work when she’s a guest.
“You’re a single parent working multiple jobs,” she tells me every time I thank her. “I can’t be here every day, but when I’m here, I can make sure you’re fed.”
Not having to worry about where the food comes from, how much it will cost, when I’ll have the energy to cook it and deal with the aftermath of dirty dishes and garbage bags are rare reprieves. The weight I don’t realize I’ve been carrying lifts. Thank you doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
We eat my mother’s homemade meals sitting at my dining room table. My kid doesn’t eat any differently than when she eats what I make, doesn’t seem to notice when I go back to the stove for seconds. Thirds.
I eat until I’m no longer hungry, my heart full to bursting.
Moriah Richard (she/they) has worked in publishing for over 10 years, editing everything from literary magazines to prescriptive nonfiction books to high fantasy novels and beyond. She’s currently the managing editor for Writer’s Digest magazine, where her world-building column was a 2023 Eddie & Ozzie Award winner, and her ever-growing Flash Fiction February Challenge invites writers to write every day for a month and share their work with the online community. For more information on Moriah’s virtual writing classes, freelance editorial rates, and more, visit MoriahRichard.com.
Thanks for this beautifully written piece that expresses well the issues and feelings of those of us who have to go to pantries, even though we're not dirt poor enough for government aid. I am sure this helps others understand the circumstances.
Thanks so much for sharing this - the economic wages of divorce for women (mostly) is still devastating. Also, you've pointed to the problem with the income shares model for child support, making the results so real and deeply felt.