Ketchup

The ketchup stains on her shirt gave away the nature of her then lack of a career, lack of a bathroom or even a cloth with which to wash herself. She looked sheepishly at her mother, who stared at her blankly in return.

“Funny running into you here,” she said gingerly.

“What, Rose? You mean here, at the soup kitchen?”

Rose stared at her feet and tried not to let tears fall. Her mother sighed.

“What kind do you want? We have clam chowder and tortilla soup.”

She lifted up her bowl. “Clam chowder please.”

“Rose, please come home already.”