That’s when I saw her.

She stood at a bus stop, half-sheltered under the small plastic awning.

A woman clutching a baby tightly to her chest.

She wasn’t pacing.
She wasn’t checking her phone.

She was just standing there. Perfectly still.

The wind was vicious—the kind that cuts straight through coats and bones.

The baby was bundled in a thin blanket, cheeks red from the cold. One tiny hand peeked out, fingers stiff and curled.

My chest tightened.

I drove past her.

For maybe five seconds.

Then every warning bell in my head went off at once.

All the lectures about strangers.
All the reminders that I’m a mother now—that I can’t be reckless.

And beneath all that, a quieter thought:

What if that were me?
What if that were my child?

I slowed down.

Pulled over.

My hands trembled as I lowered the passenger window.

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