She had said it when the electricity company mailed another overdue notice.
She had said it when the landlord knocked to ask when the rent would be paid.
And she had said it the previous evening, when the little girl asked why her mother wasn't eating supper.
"I'm not hungry, sweetheart."
The child had believed her the first time.
Not the second.
And certainly not the third.
Children were very good at noticing the things adults thought they had hidden.
The girl noticed her mother drinking water instead of eating.
She noticed the way the woman paused beside the refrigerator before closing it again.
She noticed how her mother always served her a plate first and then claimed she had already eaten while cooking.
But there had been no cooking the previous evening.
Only two pieces of toast.
Both given to the little girl.
That morning, the girl opened the kitchen cupboard and found half a box of crackers, a nearly empty jar of peanut butter, and one small tin of soup.
She counted them carefully.
Then she went to her bedroom.
Her pink bicycle rested beneath the window.
It had been her favorite possession since spring.
Her mother purchased it secondhand after saving small amounts of change for several months. The tires were worn, the seat had been repaired with black tape, and someone had painted over a long scratch near the rear wheel.
But to the little girl, it was beautiful.
She remembered the morning her mother rolled it into the backyard.
"Close your eyes."
The girl obeyed.
"No peeking."
She squeezed them shut harder.
Then her mother said, "All right."
The girl opened her eyes.
A pink bicycle stood in the grass.
For one astonished moment, she could not speak.
Then she screamed with delight.
Her mother laughed as she ran forward and wrapped her arms around her.
They spent the entire afternoon learning how to ride.
The little girl fell twice.
Cried once.
Then insisted on trying again.
By sunset, she could pedal almost the entire length of the sidewalk without help.