Mum would have been half baked if she hadn’t realised what Susan and I did every Thursday, but still she gave us all the ration cards which would entitle us to a loaf of hot, fresh bread. We ran to the bakery and slowly meandered home. As we went we made a small hole in the crust which we could get our grubby little fingers through sufficiently to pull out the soft warm doughy interior. We used a long twig to break up the bread that our small digits couldn’t reach, leaving barely enough for the rest of the family.
When Mum cut into the loaf we would protest that the baker had let too much air into the mix and Mum would nod as if in agreement. Her reaction delighted Susan and I as we thought we’d fooled her until years later we discovered she happily starved herself to ensure we always had plenty to eat.
In response to Zoe’s prompt for Six Sentence Stories — Baked