The $2.50 Lunch Service

Though I’d managed to end the situation, I was still worried about how it would affect my husband and daughter. To my surprise, when I mentioned it to them, both of them let out a sigh of relief.

My husband said, “If we lose a little money, so be it. I’ve never wanted you to do this thankless, tiring job. The neighbors, when something goes wrong, they run far away, but when it’s time to take advantage, they’re the first to jump in. There’s no need to maintain those kinds of relationships.”

“Exactly,” my daughter nodded. “Mom, you’ve been working so hard to cook for those kids, and they haven’t even said ‘thank you.’ They act like you’re their servant. I’ve been wanting to stop dealing with them for a long time.”

Their words brought tears to my eyes. It turned out I wasn’t the only one who could see things clearly.

Finally free from cooking for the neighborhood kids, I could sleep peacefully. But the next morning, I woke to commotion downstairs.

Mrs. Peterson had propped her door open, banging pots and pans in her kitchen, letting cooking smells fill the hallway.

That evening, the other parents started praising her cooking in our building’s Facebook group.

"Tommy had seconds today! The food was delicious, and there was plenty of meat. Mrs. Peterson really outdid herself."

Mrs Peterson posted: “I can’t be careless when it comes to cooking for the kids. Since you parents trust me, I’m going to take good care of them.”

The comments filled with compliments about her dedication. Someone asked, "What's today's menu cost? Is there enough food?"

"More than enough!" Mrs. Peterson replied. "The kids can eat as much as they want. They're all our children—why worry about cost? If I spend more today, I'll save tomorrow. I'm not like some people who nickel-and-dime everything, charging for utilities as if they're ingredients. Next thing you know, they'll charge for breathing the kitchen air!"

The group erupted again, praising her while taking shots at my "greediness."

I couldn't resist commenting: "Mrs. Peterson, how are you managing to buy so much meat for just $2.50 per meal? Even at Walmart, ground beef is $4.50 a pound. You're not serving them mystery meat, are you?"

That got people thinking. Everyone knew current meat prices.

"Yeah, Mrs. Peterson, you're not using low-quality meat, right?"

Calmly, Mrs Peterson responded, “Don’t listen to her nonsense. My meat is perfectly fine. My daughter works at a meat processing plant, so I get good deals. She just can’t accept that the kids are eating good, affordable meat. She’s jealous.”

The others turned on me, accusing me of being petty. “After making so much money from everyone, now you’re badmouthing someone who’s doing real work for the community?”

What they didn't know was that Mrs. Peterson's daughter's plant had closed two years ago due to swine flu and health violations. She was using questionable leftover frozen meat from that time.

But nobody stopped to question why Mrs. Peterson, known for pinching pennies at the grocery store, was suddenly so generous.

Still, warning them was my final act of kindness.

After a month of word-of-mouth marketing, Mrs. Peterson's lunch service became the talk of the neighborhood. Kids from our building and the next one over were all signed up. She served meat dishes daily.

Parents kept raving about the aromatic smells wafting through the building. The two-year-old frozen meat had a strange taste, but no one seemed to notice or care.

While her business thrived downstairs, I sat at home feeling restless.

Since having my daughter, I had stayed home as a full-time housewife. My only hobby was cooking, and I’d feel happy for days when people enjoyed my meals. That’s why I took on this difficult and thankless task in the first place.

While I was considering whether I should find a job, a young woman came to my door and asked if I still ran a lunch service.

I waved my hand. “You’ve got the wrong place. The lunch service is downstairs.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not looking for a kids' lunch service. I’m looking for one for adults.”

She handed me a business card that showed she was the operations manager for a nearby company. Her name was Sarah Cooper.

Sarah explained that most of the employees at her company were programmers, and their eating habits were unhealthy—they either ordered takeout or ate instant ramen. She hoped I could provide lunch for twenty of them, with the price no more than $15 per person.

Twenty people, $15 each—that’s $300 a day!

I was stunned. “How did you find me?”

Sarah laughed. “My uncle recommended you. He’s your meat supplier.

“He told me about the quality meat you buy. Said you only use free-range, organic pork—the kind usually reserved for high-end restaurants. You convinced him it was for children's meals. He trusts you and knows your cooking is top-notch."

My dedication to quality ingredients had finally paid off.

Still, after my recent experience, I hesitated.

Sarah sensed my uncertainty and pulled out a contract. "Don't worry—everything will be official. Bi-weekly payments, and legal protection if anything goes wrong."

With the contract in hand, I agreed. Later, feeling the price was too high, I reduced it to $12 per meal.

Even at that rate, I made a decent profit daily while keeping my schedule flexible enough to pick up my daughter from school.

Sarah’s coworkers loved my cooking. Their genuine appreciation boosted my confidence far more than cooking for ungrateful children who complained about every little thing.

After two weeks, I'd earned $1,000. To celebrate, I treated my family to dinner at their favorite restaurant.

But the next day, while delivering lunches, I spotted Mrs. Peterson at Sarah’s office.

She was sweet-talking Sarah, "Trust me, her food isn't safe. Twelve dollars per meal? She's just price-gouging. Come to my place—I'll charge eight dollars, and the food's much better."

My blood boiled hearing this.

"Better how?" I asked, stepping forward.

"Well, I serve meat every day..." Mrs. Peterson began, then froze mid-sentence when she saw me. The color drained from her face.