The Little Boy and the Bread of Sharing
On giving without expecting, and the quiet wounds that teach us how to love.
Some lessons don’t arrive as teachings.
They arrive as moments we don’t understand until years later.
This story is one of them.
It speaks of generosity, disappointment, and the subtle way a single day can reshape how we give — and why.
The Little Boy and the Bread of Sharing
There was, in a distant kingdom and in a very ancient time, a little boy with a noble and sensitive heart, though still deeply immature. He lived with his mother and his older brother in a modest home, far from palaces and great roads. His father was rarely present, held elsewhere by conflicts between adults—matters that scarcely concerned the child. To him, it made little difference.
His mother was a merchant. Each day, before the sun fully rose, she set up her stall in the local market, selling whatever was needed: food, clothes, simple goods for daily life. She was a courageous woman, strong and devoted, a loving mother who stood firm against the tides of life for the sake of her children.
She rose at the crowing of the rooster, when the air was still cool and the world seemed to hold its breath. She prepared her sons’ meals, washed them, dressed them, and made them ready for school. Their lunch boxes were always filled with care and generosity, always with more than enough.
In that household, sharing was a fundamental value. At school as well, adults tried to teach children the importance of giving and sharing. But had they truly managed to root that lesson in every child’s heart? The story would soon answer.
Life was simple for the little boy. Despite his parents’ quarrels, he lived like a prince in his own way—rebellious, joyful, carefree. His days were spent playing and laughing, unaware of the world’s burdens. At school, everything went smoothly. Intelligent, slightly boastful, and gifted with a gentle, reserved yet cheerful nature, he quickly won the affection of his teachers and became their favorite.
Then one day, something unexpected happened—something that would mark the innocent child forever and change the way he saw the world.
That night, the rain fell violently upon the city. The wind howled through streets and alleyways like an enraged beast. It was as though nature itself had chosen to unleash all its fury upon the kingdom. His mother could not return home early; the weather was too dangerous, too unpredictable. By the time the storm finally calmed, it was already very late.
She entered her home exhausted, chilled to the bone, crushed by a deep and relentless fatigue. When her body finally reached the bed, she fell into a heavy, enchanting sleep—a deceptive sleep born of exhaustion.
When morning came and she awoke, it was already too late. Too late to prepare the children’s lunch boxes before they hurried off to school. In haste, she made them a quick breakfast, dressed them, and walked them to school with a heavy heart. The lunch boxes remained empty.
She hoped. Oh, what a mistake. She hoped—just as the little boy did—that the other children would agree to share some of their food, as he so gladly did every day.
Hope is a noble feeling, but it can also be terribly dangerous.
The morning passed as usual, filled with lessons, games, and laughter. But when lunchtime arrived, misfortune struck. The little boy’s heart fell into an abyss of despair and bitterness. None of his classmates were willing to share their food with him. Despite the teacher’s gentle persuasion and kind words, the children refused, some even with tears in their eyes. Children can be innocent—and sometimes cruel.
The boy did not spend the day hungry. His teacher, a woman of rare kindness, used her own money to buy him something to eat.
At the end of the day, he returned to his mother and told her everything that had happened. She grew angry, but not as deeply as he did. She understood the nature of children, and after a while, she even laughed about the situation. While she laughed, the images of that humiliation quietly engraved themselves in her son’s heart.
From that day on, she made it a point of honor to always prepare her sons’ lunch boxes, no matter the circumstances. But the little boy had changed. The joyful and generous child had become driven by a silent sense of vengeance.
The next morning, his mother rose early and everything was ready on time. At school, the day unfolded as it always had. But at lunchtime, when the teacher asked if he wanted to eat, he simply replied that he was not hungry. He repeated those words day after day.
In secret, he bought food in the schoolyard with the pocket money left by his father. He never opened his lunch box again until he was back home with his mother.
He no longer wished to share his food with classmates he now saw as selfish. And he lacked the courage to refuse if the teacher asked him to share. In his child’s mind, refusing to eat was the only way to sustain his vengeance. He preferred to suffer rather than share even the smallest crumb.
Only years later did he finally understand the true wisdom of sharing.
Giving and sharing must be personal acts—gestures aligned with oneself, without expectation of return.
At the end of the year, when many offer gifts, sadness can sometimes find its way into our hearts because we give while secretly hoping to receive something in return. Yet even the most precious gift creates no obligation.
When we detach giving from any expectation of reciprocity, disappointment loses its power over us. Sadness and anger can no longer touch our souls.
I give because it makes me feel good, because it brings me peace and well-being. And when I give, I expect nothing in return, even though a simple gesture of appreciation can warm the heart.
The little boy suffered because he did not understand this, and because no one knew how to explain it to him.
Giving is a personal commitment, not an exchange.
🪞 Step for Reflection
Ask yourself gently today:
Where in my life have I been giving while secretly waiting to receive?
What would change if I allowed my generosity to be free — even from memory?
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The Secret Book of Love is a short collection of poems born from the same space as these reflections — a place where love is tender, wounded, honest, and human.
It’s a small book, written to be read slowly, in silence, or in moments when the heart needs gentler language.
You can find it on Amazon here:
👉 The Secret Book of Love
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for walking alongside these words.
Your presence already means more than you know.
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Until Wednesday,
Warmly,
Odel A.
Oof—this one poked me right in the soft spot. Kid logic is brutal and honest: “fine, I’ll just never open the lunch box again.” That hurt made total sense to tiny-me. Giving with hope sneaking along like a shadow… yeah, I’ve done that too without knowing the name for it...
The line about giving being personal, not an exchange, feels like something you only understand after you’ve been disappointed once or twice. Quiet lesson. Sticky lesson. I’m still learning it, honestly.