At a classmate’s home, I noticed her parents’ gaunt, pale appearance and veiny arms. Dinner was cold canned beans and soggy bread, unsettling me. Maela, my quiet classmate, had invited me over with desperate excitement. Her spotless house felt lifeless, her younger brother silent. In her room, Maela showed me her talented sketches but seemed resigned about her art school dreams. In the bathroom, I found pill bottles—antidepressants, anxiety meds, methadone—hinting at her parents’ addiction. I left early, shaken.
At school, Maela and I distanced ourselves, but a teacher later asked me to vouch for her for a youth mentorship scholarship. I did, and she got it, joining an art program that brought small changes—fresher clothes, occasional smiles. She confided her dad had another family, her mom knew but stayed, struggling with addiction. After her mom’s non-fatal overdose, Maela was placed with a host family. She won an art competition, earning a scholarship, and later got into an art institute. She credited my visit for her survival, saying I “saw” her. Now, she teaches drawing at a youth center, her art reflecting her past with hints of hope.
Sometimes, noticing someone’s struggle is enough.
