I still sleep with food beneath the bed

Dear Delyara, I am sixty-three and financially comfortable. My cupboards are full. My pension arrives every month. Still, I keep crackers, canned meat, chocolate, and bottled water beneath my bed. I grew up hungry. Real hunger, where my mother drank hot water at dinner and told us she had eaten earlier. At night, I used to hide bread because my older brother would take it before morning. My husband knew about the food under our bed and never mocked me. He died last year. Since then, the supplies have doubled. My daughter discovered them while changing sheets and became frightened. Some cans expired five years ago. She threw one away, and I became so angry I slapped her hand. We both froze. I have never hit my daughter. She cried. I apologized. I know the food is not keeping me alive. The supermarket is six minutes away. My bank account has enough money. Yet when I lie down and feel the boxes beneath me, one part of my body believes there will still be breakfast if the whole world changes overnight. My daughter wants me to speak to someone. I keep saying yes. Then I buy another packet of crackers and slide it under the bed.