“Mom, he’s my brother,” said six-year-old Andrew, his voice trembling as he stared at the barefoot boy on the sidewalk.
Clara Whitmore, dressed in her beige heels and crisp designer suit, froze. They had just left a fancy downtown gala at the Ritz, where the city’s wealthiest had gathered to sip champagne under glittering lights. Andrew had been as polite and quiet as always, holding her hand gently as they stepped out into the afternoon sun. But now, as they turned onto 6th Avenue, everything stopped.
Andrew had suddenly gone still. His small hand gripped hers tighter.
“Andrew?” Clara asked, glancing down at him.
He didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on a boy sitting near a trash bin. The boy looked no older than eight. He was thin, shirtless, dusty, and holding a crumpled cardboard sign that read, “Food.” His ribs stuck out from under his skin. His eyes, hollow from hunger, met Andrew’s. Then Andrew whispered, “That’s Malik. He used to give me food… when we were little. In the…..Read Full Story Here…………………….
