The next Saturday, I brought a folding chair, more snacks, crayons, and coloring books. I told myself maybe the family wouldn’t show. They did. So did a mother with twin girls climbing over her arms while she tried to fix one ponytail, a grandfather with his granddaughter carefully dressed as though the visit was sacred, and a third family juggling a stroller and a toddler who refused to sit still.
By ten o’clock, I had six children around me. By noon, it was clear I’d be back next week. That’s been five years now.
Some Saturdays it’s only four children. Other times, fifteen. Babies with runny noses. Second graders asking questions too fast for anyone to keep up. Teenagers pretending they’re too old, but quietly taking a snack and sitting down anyway.
They call me Miss Evie now. One little girl asked, “Are you the grandma for outside?” I said yes, and it felt right.
The hardest part isn’t the crying, though there is plenty. It’s the questions. “Why can’t Daddy come home if he says he’s sorry?” “Why do we have to talk through glass?” “Does my mom still love me if she missed my birthday?”
