That Thursday, I drove to Walmart to buy groceries. Nothing special—milk, bread, soup, the same things I’ve bought every week since she died. As I pushed the cart back toward my car, the wind cut through the parking lot like a blade. It stung my face, numbed my fingers.
That’s when I noticed her.
She stood near the far edge of the lot, half-hidden between parked cars. A young woman, barely more than a girl, holding a baby wrapped in what looked like a thin bath towel. She wore only a light sweater, the kind meant for autumn, not for a winter afternoon like this.
She was shaking so hard I could see her knees trembling.
I stopped walking.
Something in my chest tightened, the same way it used when my wife used to forget her gloves in the cold. Continue reading…