When I ran into an old college buddy, she looked anxious and told me she was doing pretty badly. She stated she was so broke she hadn’t been able to afford food for days. I didn’t even think twice—I felt bad for her.
I’m the sort who meal-preps and saves extra portions in the freezer, so I offered to help. I packed a big tote bag with a variety of stuff that would actually last: spaghetti, soup, chicken stir-fry—real meals, not just nibbles. The goal was to drop it off after work so she wouldn’t have to worry for a while.
However, I saw her post on Instagram just before I left.
a fresh tattoo.
At first I figured it was an old picture—a throwback, one of those “remember when” pieces. But no… it was plainly fresh. Bright, clean, newly done. I simply gazed at it, attempting to make sense of it.
I kept thinking: Maybe someone gifted it? Maybe a buddy paid? Maybe there’s some explanation I don’t know.
Still, it felt off.
So I messaged her—calmly—just asking whether she still needed the meal. I mentioned I’d seen her post, not with attitude, but genuine confusion.
What I got back wasn’t an explanation.
It was rage.
She became enraged with me, accusing me of looking down on her, calling me judgmental, and claiming that she “always finds money for ink.” Then it got worse—she started screaming insults, personal slurs, the type meant to hit where it hurts. She had escalated it into a full-fledged assault before I could even reply.
I didn’t reply.
I simply returned the tote bag to my freezer in silence, sat down, and looked at my phone while experiencing a mixture of disappointment and shock.
Now I can’t stop wondering: was she ever genuinely hungry… or was it more about seeking compassion and attention? Either way, it’s the kind of event that makes you hesitate the next time someone begs for help—and I hate that it does.
