By: Lily McDonald
Date: April 22, 2025
It was the ’80s, and life was messy. I had two little kids to take care of, and things weren’t easy—especially when my husband was off on one of his drinking binges, and I was stuck in my mom’s house with barely anything in the fridge. The only thing in the kitchen were these ridiculous diet shakes that my mom would buy, probably for herself, but no way in hell was I giving that to my babies. I needed something substantial, something to fill them up.
I was only 17, and feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. I had no job, and my ex was nowhere to be found. I didn’t know what to do. But in that moment, I had an idea. I called my brother to come over and watch the kids for a while, so I could run across the street to the little chicken joint. The smell of fried chicken always seemed like a miracle to me—warm, greasy, comforting. That was exactly what my kids needed.
I was in a panic, honestly. I didn’t have much money to my name. But I figured, I could maybe sneak in and get some food, just grab something, and head back. I didn’t want to seem desperate, but I was. So, I walked in, and in a split second of nervousness, I blurted out, “I’m here for Mr. Cobb’s order!”
The place went silent. The staff behind the counter looked at me like I had just landed from Mars. I was so flustered that I didn’t even realize what I had said. They stared, waiting for me to explain, and I knew I had made a huge mistake.
But here’s the thing: in that moment, the impulse to feed my kids was stronger than anything else. My heart was pounding, and I could feel my cheeks flush. But desperation got the best of me, and I just stood there, hoping they’d take pity on me. I didn’t even know who Mr. Cobb was—I had just thrown out the first name that came to mind.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the woman behind the counter asked, “Are you sure you’re here for Mr. Cobb’s order?”
I could feel my palms sweating, but I wasn’t about to back down now. “Yes, yes, I’m here for his order. He’s not able to pick it up, so I’m doing it for him.”
I don’t know if it was my pleading eyes or if the woman behind the counter just had a heart, but after a moment, she nodded and packed up some chicken. I could barely believe it as she handed it over to me—some chicken, fries, and a side of coleslaw. I didn’t have any money to pay for it, but somehow, I just walked out, clutching the bag tightly.
I made it home, heart still racing, but relief flooding my body. My brother didn’t say anything when he saw me walk in with the food. I didn’t even have the courage to tell him what I’d done. I fed the kids and settled in for a quiet night, my heart still beating from the excitement.
Looking back, I don’t know what possessed me to do that. Maybe it was the desperation of the situation, the need to provide for my children, or maybe just the sheer panic of not knowing where the next meal was going to come from. I’m not proud of it, but I got away with it. And in that moment, I had done what I needed to do.
Sometimes, as a parent, you do whatever it takes to take care of your kids. Even if that means stealing chicken from a nameless joint.
