Dad rubbed his calloused, dirty hands together softly.

“That particular winter was exceptionally rough on us,” Dad recalled.

“There was a cold week in February when we had nothing left in the kitchen except a box of crackers and a jar of peanut butter.

Martha gave her entire portion to young Kristin, pretending she was not hungry herself so our daughter could eat.”

I stood on the porch in complete shock, having no memory of that hardship because I was only five years old at the time.

“One morning, I opened the front door to look for work and found a large cardboard box sitting on our porch,” Dad continued gently.