4:30 a.m.

My three-year-old son, Kamal, woke up in the middle of the night, hungry.
He kept asking for food over and over again. I tried to distract him with questions, hoping sleep might take him back.
But it was useless.
He cried for nearly half an hour, and with every tear that fell from his eyes, something inside me burned—something I can't quite name… maybe guilt, maybe helplessness, or something deeper than words.

How can I feed a child when there isn’t even a piece of bread in the house?
No fruit. No vegetables.
Even a cup of milk has become a distant memory.

All that was left was some dry lentils. But they need fire to be cooked.
And we are in total darkness, under constant bombing, where any movement at night could mean death.
How could I climb to the rooftop at this hour, search for wood or scraps of paper, and light a fire for an hour just to quiet my son’s hunger?
Every step toward the fire could be my last.

I’m sorry, Kamal...
I held him close, and we sat there crying together until the sun came up.
His hunger was devouring me more than it was him.
But I was powerless.
In war, even mothers lose their ability to give life.