I remembered being 19 and pregnant and invisible, riding the bus with my hands over my stomach, wondering what kind of mother I could possibly be when I’d never really had one myself.
Before I even knew what I was doing, I abandoned my cart and pushed through the automatic doors into the cold.
“Just hungry.”
“Hey,” I called, keeping my voice soft like you would with a scared animal. “Are you okay?”
She lifted her head, slow and heavy, eyes glassy like she was trying really hard not to faint or fall or cry.
“I’m… I’m fine,” she whispered, which is exactly what women say when they are absolutely not fine. “Just hungry.”
Hungry.
That word hit me harder than the wind.
“When did you last eat?” I asked.
She stared down at the sidewalk like the answer might be written in the cracks.
“I’m getting you dinner. Please stay right here.”
“Yesterday,” she muttered. “Maybe. I don’t remember.”
I wanted to cry right there on the sidewalk, cry for her, for me at nineteen, for every kid I’d ever seen come and go from foster homes with trash bags instead of suitcases.
Instead, I took a breath because my kids needed dinner, and this girl needed food fast, and I only had so much time to fix any of it.
“Listen,” I said. “I’m getting you dinner. Please stay right here.”
She shook her head weakly. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to,” I cut in. “I want to.”
“If you ever need help later, call me.”
Before I ran back inside, I dug one of my work business cards out of my wallet and pressed it into her hand.
“If you ever need help later, call me,” I said. “Seriously. I mean it.”
Inside, I grabbed one of those hot deli containers, the kind that feels like it might melt through the plastic, loaded it with mashed potatoes and chicken and gravy, added a big bottle of water, and paid without thinking about my bank balance.
When I came out, she looked honestly shocked that I’d returned, like she’s spent a whole lifetime being someone people walk away from.
