The next morning, I drove across town to the church food pantry.
I’d been volunteering there for months. Sorting cans, handing out diapers, pouring coffee into chipped mugs.
That’s where I met Maya. She was only 24 and had been laid off from her retail job. She had a baby girl named Ava who rarely cried but clung to Maya’s chest like the world had already told her it couldn’t be trusted.
When I walked in, Maya looked up from her seat in the corner. She looked exhausted. I saw something in her that reminded me of Claire, before everything got… complicated.
“I’ll be with you in a second,” I said. “I’ll get us some tea.”
She nodded and smiled.
I poured two mugs of tea and grabbed a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Then, I sat down and handed her the box.
“This is for Ava,” I said.
“For… her?” Maya blinked. “Why?”
“Just because,” I said simply.
She opened it slowly, like it might disappear. Her hands trembled when she pulled out the blanket.
“This is handmade?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“Every single stitch, darling,” I nodded.
She started crying then. That full-body kind of crying. Then she reached up, unhooked Ava from the carrier, and gently handed her to me.
“I haven’t eaten with both hands in weeks,” she said, wiping her cheeks.
So I held Ava. Rocked her while Maya went to get herself a bowl of warm soup.
“It’s strange to eat without stopping to shush or bounce or wipe spit-up,” Maya said as she took a bite of her bread roll.
“That’s why I’m here,” I smiled.
And in that moment, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Gratitude. Not theirs, mine.
