She presents me with something wrapped in a cloth. I open it up. Inside lies a pair of two perfect, pristine pencils. They’re fine, high-quality ones, with firm, dark tips. I feel something drop in my chest. I have no idea how long Mom must have saved up in order to afford these. How many nights have we boiled turnips and swallowed the watery broth so that I could take the Exam using these amazing—no, perfect—pencils?
i’m gonna cry
