“What are you doing, sweetie?” I asked, as gently as I could.

She flinched, caught, and her whole body tensed.

“It’s for tomorrow,” she said.

Those three words.

It’s for tomorrow.

My teenage daughter, sitting in a restaurant with her father, was rationing her dinner, saving half of it, because five years had taught her that food was scarce and the next meal was never certain.

“Maya,” I said, and I had to steady my voice.

“There will be food tomorrow too.