After the divorce, Richard’s world became very quiet.

His three children lived with their mother, and he clung to the precious rhythm of seeing them a couple of times during the week and every second weekend—especially Shabbos. Those days weren’t just visits; they were his anchor, the moments that reminded him who he was beyond the long hours and the empty flat.

Richard worked full-time, often leaving early and coming home late, doing everything he could to make ends meet. But the numbers never quite added up. On minimum wage, after rent, council tax, utilities, and child maintenance were paid, he was left with just £200 to last the entire month—for food, travel, and everything else life demanded. Most months, that money was gone by the middle of the month.

Because he earned just above the threshold, Richard wasn’t entitled to benefits. The support for the children went to their mother, as it should—but it left Richard falling through the cracks, trying to survive on what little remained.

Then came the weekends that broke him.

Twice in a row, Richard had to cancel his children coming over. There simply wasn’t food in the cupboard, and there was no money left to buy any. The shame felt unbearable. How could he tell his children that their father couldn’t even feed them?

So he didn’t tell them the truth.

He made excuses. Work issues. Scheduling problems. Anything that would hide the reality. But those weekends were the longest nights of his life. Sitting alone in his apartment, the silence loud and cruel, knowing the children should have been there—laughing, arguing, sharing Shabbos together. Hungry himself, having not eaten a proper meal, his thoughts spiralled. He felt like he was failing at the most basic responsibility of being a father.

When his children begged him, their voices filled with confusion and longing, “Please Abba, make it work. Please let us come for Shabbos,” something inside him shattered. That was his lowest point. The weight of not being able to provide, not being able to be present, pushed him into a dark place he never imagined he would reach.

And that was when Richard reached out.

With courage he didn’t know he had left, he contacted the L’Chaim Foodbank.

The response was immediate—and life-changing.

Not only was Richard provided with nutritious food to fill his cupboards, but there were also snacks and nosh just for the children, games to play together, and small gifts that told his children something far greater than words ever could: You are wanted here. You are loved here.

That weekend was unforgettable.

The apartment that once felt empty was filled with laughter. Shabbos was warm and alive. There was food on the table, joy in the air, and a father who could finally breathe again. For Richard and his children, it wasn’t just about meals—it was about dignity, connection, and restoring a bond that means everything.

Sometimes, a food parcel is so much more than food. Sometimes, it brings back dignity, emotional safety, and the gift of family time on Shabbos.