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the bar.
    Ten minutes later, the heads of Ned’s firm—Josiah and Muriel Johnson—came in. “Piper, it’s so nice to see you again,” Muriel said. We’d met at a backyard picnic at Ned’s over the summer.
    She did a group introduction to some of the other people from the firm. They didn’t say if they were other lawyers, aides, or what. I simply smiled and thanked them all for coming and went back to greeting guests.
    By the time everyone arrived, I was already exhausted.
    I went to a writers’ conference once and attended a workshop that talked about extroverts versus introverts. That’s when I discovered that I am absolutely an introvert who can put on an extrovert mask long enough for an event like this. But I knew tomorrow, I’d be drained.
    As I had that thought, Liz, a reporter from the newspaper, asked if she could talk to me a minute. I pasted a smile on my face, hoping it wasn’t as brittle looking as Mela’s had been, and that it was extrovertish enough to cover my inner introvert and said, “Of course.”
    Liz asked about Amanda’s Pantry and I recited some of our statistics. And then she asked, “Can you tell me about the Amanda you named it for?”
    I nodded. “I’ll be covering that in just a minute in my very short speech.”
    She laughed. “Great. If I have follow-up questions, I’ll catch you later?”
    “Sure,” I told her.
    Over the years I’d been asked that same question time after time. Who was Amanda?
    No matter how many times I answered it, how many ways I answered it, it was still my most frequently asked question. I knew it was my own fault, but I wouldn’t have named the food pantry anything else, because it, along with so many other facets of my life, was for Amanda . . . for her.
    Two television news cameras were setting up in the back and the band was set up on the stage. That was good news. Though I hated being on television, I knew that the pantry would probably receive a few more donations because of the coverage.
    I was up.
    I made my way to the stage, tucked another stray bunch of hair behind my ear, and adjusted the microphone.
    “Hello, everyone. I think I greeted all of you as you came into the ballroom, but in case you snuck in through the kitchen,” the audience chuckled, “I’ll say welcome again. For those who don’t know, I’m Piper George. I want to thank you for coming out tonight to support Amanda’s Pantry.
    “I’ve been asked countless times, Who is Amanda ? As a matter of fact, someone asked me again tonight.”
    I found Liz at the newspaper’s table and she smiled and gave me a nod.
    “Some have accused me of dodging the question, but that’s not it at all. I’m happy to tell you all exactly who Amanda is.”
    Liz couldn’t have known this would be my speech, but her question was perfectly timed. I’d answered this question to individuals since Amanda’s Pantry opened four years ago. I’d opened it the same year I’d quit working and started writing full time.
    Eventually someone noticed that all my dedications since my very first Belinda Mae book was published were also dedicated to Amanda. So now, I’d tell them.
    “Amanda is every child who’s going to bed hungry because there’s nothing to eat in her house.
    “Amanda is every child who is cold because she doesn’t have a proper coat to wear in Erie’s harsh winters.”
    She was that little girl at the grocery store back when I was in college.
    And she was the daughter I’d given up to another family .
    I thought those parts, but didn’t say them. It’s not that my daughter was a secret, but since I’d given her up, I only had my memories of her—my hopes and dreams for her—and my love to hold on to. Those things were too precious to share with anyone else.
    So I simply continued my speech, sharing Amanda’s Pantry’s announcement.
    “Giving those children a name seemed to make the issue of hunger more real. I could tell you that according to Feeding America, 15.9