It was payday, and I had just picked up my paycheck before heading to the supermarket for groceries. My arms ached under the weight of overstuffed bags, and my mind was already racing to pick up my three kids from school and daycare. Since my husband left two years ago—taking our car with him—life had been a daily struggle. I worked nights, walked everywhere, and stretched every dollar just to keep us afloat. The only thing standing between us and the streets was the old, creaky house Grandma had left me.
That afternoon, as I stepped out of the store, I felt someone watching me. I turned and saw her.
She was sitting near the bike rack, hunched over in layers of sweaters too heavy for August, sleeves covering her hands. A piece of cardboard in front of her read, “Hungry. Please help,” written in shaky letters. People passed by without a glance, as if she wasn’t there. But her watery blue eyes met mine—tired, searching, and vulnerable.
I couldn’t ignore her.
“Ma’am?” I said softly. “I’m going to get you something to eat, okay?”
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