Breakfast for Dinner isn’t Fun – it’s Survival
<p>I’m eight years old, at baseball semi-finals with my family. It’s round robin but I don’t really know what that means. Aunties, uncles, cousins, grandparents, siblings, Mum. It’s not Dad’s weekend with us.</p>
<p>My Auntie is entering a fundraiser game. You have to pick a number from a list and one is drawn out of a hat.</p>
<p>I pick the first choice I see with “six” in it. It’s my lucky number. I once won a book and a library bag with it. Grandma told me it’s the devil’s number and seven is better — it rhymes with heaven. But I stick with six.</p>
<p>We win the fundraiser but not the semi-final. I really wanted to win the semi-finals, but I’m holding a $50 note in my hand. It’s a lot of money. My Auntie paid the gold coin entry fee so I hand the yellow note to her, but she shakes her head.</p>
<p>“You picked the number, so you win the prize.”</p>
<p>In the car on the way home I proudly show my sisters the yellow note. My brother stretches around from the front seat to look. It’s a lot of money. They ask to hold it but I don’t want to let go. Once you let go of money it doesn’t come back.</p>
<p>I see mum’s eyes looking at me in the rear-view mirror. She asks if she could borrow it, we could get McDonald’s for dinner.</p>
<p>I’m very hungry. I want to say no. I just want to hold the yellow note, feel the plastic in my hands. It feels like safety. But I see my younger siblings’ faces. Eyes shining eagerly. They are hungry too.</p>
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