I was eight months pregnant and wedged into a tram seat, counting stops like breaths, when a woman climbed on with a baby and a bag big enough to have its own zip code. She looked washed thin—eyes hollow, hair scraped back, the kind of tired that lives in your bones. No one moved. My body did before my brain caught up. I stood and offered my seat.
She gave me a look I couldn’t read—surprise, maybe grief—and sat without a word. At her stop she rose, adjusted the baby, and on her way past slipped something into my tote. Wet. Cold. I flinched, half expecting a leak of formula or a balled-up wipe. By the time I fished it out, she was gone.
A Ziploc bag. Inside: a damp sheet of lined paper, ink bled outward like it had been crying; and a folded $50.
My stomach rolled. Trash? A weird thank you? The paper said, in messy hand: You’re kind. Please forgive me. Call this number. Underneath, a phone number that meant nothing to me.
I took it home and dropped the bag on the counter like it might sting if I held it too long. Marc was at the stove, garlic and butter making the kitchen smell like a promise.
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