I was sitting on a bench outside a small café when she approached me, eyes rimmed red, shoulders slumped with the unmistakable weight of exhaustion. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept properly in weeks. In a rushed whisper, she asked if I could hold her baby for five minutes so she could use the restroom. Before I could even fully respond, she gently placed her son in my arms. He was warm, quiet, and smelled faintly of baby soap. She thanked me quickly and disappeared into the building. I told myself it was fine—parents need help sometimes, and it felt human to say yes. At first, the baby stared up at me calmly, gripping my finger, and I rocked him softly, assuming she’d be right back.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. I checked the café door more than once, scanning faces as people came and went. At fifteen minutes, unease settled in. I wasn’t panicking, but questions crept in. Was she okay? Had something happened? The baby began to fuss, and I bounced him gently, whispering reassurances I wasn’t sure were for him or for me. I debated going inside to ask staff for help, but before I moved, I noticed her approaching from across the plaza. Relief washed over me—until I realized she wasn’t alone.
