When I first moved to Canada I was nine years old. My parents sent my brother and I to live with our relatives (aunt, uncle, cousins - all naturalized Canadian citizens of longstanding at that point). I was lonely more or less all of the time and I missed home and I missed my parents more than I had the ability to comprehend. I had integration and language classes at the local primary school, which involved a lot of field trips and activities. One activity was a trip to the lake. Parents were invited.
My parents were visiting me at the time (they came maybe two three times a year, for a week or two), and my father promised me that he would attend. The day before the trip, he told me that he had to meet with a lawyer or an accountant or some such instead, and wouldn't be able to go on my school trip. I don't think I've ever been more disappointed about something before or since.
That day, at the lake, we sat down to eat the lunches that our families had packed for us. A boy from my class brought his mother along. She made a beautiful bento box of Japanese food. My aunt packed my lunch (I hate her sandwiches), which tasted like sawdust.
Life really sucked back then. so. much.