Tears blurred my vision.
I hadn’t heard kindness spoken plainly in so long that it felt unfamiliar, like a language I’d forgotten.
He looked at the carrier strap cutting into my shoulder.
“Let me drive you home,” he offered.
Everything in my body wanted to say no.
I was raised to never accept rides from strangers.
But my legs were tired.
The bus stop was far.
And I’d already dragged that baby through a day that felt like it was trying to break me.
“I don’t want to bother you,” I murmured.
“You’re not bothering me,” he said. “Please. Let me help.”
His name was Earl.
His car was the kind I’d only seen in magazines—clean, quiet, expensive.
He loaded my bags into the trunk.
Then he surprised me even more.
He opened the back door and pulled out a child seat.
“Let me buckle her in properly,” he said, reaching gently toward Bambi.
I hesitated for a heartbeat before handing her over.
But his hands were steady.
Careful.
He checked the straps twice, like this wasn’t new to him.
“You have kids?” I asked as he started the car.
He nodded.
“Two,” he said. “My girl just turned three. My boy is seven.”
I smiled despite everything.
“You must be a good dad.”
He laughed quietly.
“I’m trying. Some days better than others.”
As we drove, he asked about Bambi.
His questions weren’t polite small talk.
They were real.
So I told him the truth.
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