It was hard, thankless work, but it paid just enough for rent, diapers, and formula. I reminded myself daily that it was temporary — that one day, things would get better.
While I worked, she cared for my son, feeding him, singing softly to him, and keeping our tiny apartment warm with her steady kindness.
“You just keep going,” she would say every time she saw me near tears. “You can break down later — after he’s asleep.” Without her, I would have fallen apart on day one.
That morning, after finishing my shift, I stepped out into the icy dawn. The air bit at my skin, my thin jacket doing little to fight off the cold.
I could see my breath fogging in front of me as I walked toward the bus stop, clutching my worn tote bag and thinking only about getting home to my baby.
My thoughts were already scattered — bottles to wash, onesies to fold, bills to pay, and maybe, just maybe, twenty minutes of rest before he woke up again.
That’s when I heard it.
A faint, piercing cry carried through the stillness — soft at first, almost imagined. I stopped, my breath catching.
