I was exhausted when I walked into McDonald’s that night, moving more on habit than energy. That’s when I noticed them: a mother in a thin, worn coat and a little girl scanning the room with cautious hope. They placed a small order. Then came a quiet request, followed by the gentle but firm no that poverty so often demands. The restaurant buzzed with ordinary life — fryers sizzling, people chatting, phones glowing. But at their table, something heavier lingered.