She knows the soup is not enough for the four of them.

She's lucky enough to pass by the market at closing time and get the last, ugly-looking, unsold vegetable at a good price – she knows how important is for her children to get a healthy meal, even if it's more expensive than feeding them with high-fat, high-sugar, low quality food.

She's lucky enough to get some left over from one of her employers, even if it hurts her pride – she knows that growing children need meat too. She's a master in recycling a roasted chicken: a good broth or, if she's able to scrape enough meat, a meat loaf or some patties.

She's lucky her children aren't fussy eaters, not every bit much as another employer's ones. She's thankful for that and sometimes she wonders if her children actually understand all her efforts to properly feed them.

However, all this musing didn't increase to amount of soup.

She sighs as she dips the ladle in the pot: two spoonful for each child, with some milk for a sweeter taste and a more nutritious meal; one spoonful and a half for her husband, with milk and cubed bread to make it a bit more comforting.

She stares at the soup at the bottom of the pot, maybe a little bit more than a spoonful, maybe a little bit less – her own share. She shakes the carton of milk, but she has already almost used it all, so she adds warm water to make it look as much as her loved ones' – no bread for her, she has to think about tomorrow's meals as well.

As they eat their dinner, with the children chirping happily about what a yummy meal their mom made for them, her husband glances every now and then at her bowl.

«Wasn't your soup thinner than mine? » he will ask later.

And she will pout and will reply with her vainest voice: «You know I have three pounds to lose! »