That was when I saw her.
She was sitting on the sidewalk near a pharmacy, holding a baby against her chest. Young. Thin. Exhausted. Her clothes were dirty at the hems, but the baby was clean and wrapped carefully. That detail mattered to me. Whatever else was wrong, she was trying.
And for one terrible second, my heart stumbled.
Because she looked like my daughter.
I knew perfectly well my daughter was dead. I had buried her. But there was something in this young woman’s face that caught me so hard I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
She started thanking me immediately.
Then she said quietly, “Please. Anything to eat.”
I reached into my wallet and handed her a hundred-dollar bill.
Her eyes went wide. “Ma’am, I can’t-“
“You can,” I said. “Use it for the baby.”
She started thanking me immediately.
I nodded and walked away.
The baby stirred against her chest.
I got maybe ten steps.
Then I stopped.
I turned back and asked, “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”
She shook her head.
The baby stirred against her chest.
I should have called a shelter. I know that. I should have given her the number of a church office or some outreach service.
She blinked at me like she had misheard.
Instead, I said, “I have a guest house.”
