There was a pause.
Then, quietly, he said, “Arthur.”
I nodded.
“Please… get something warm.”
“I’m Nora,” I added, and also shared my last name. I introduced my twins, leaning them over so Arthur could see them. He repeated my name once, as if he didn’t want to forget it.
“Nora.”
I walked home that night instead of taking the bus, three miles in the rain, holding my girls close so they wouldn’t get wet.
By the time I got to my apartment, my shoes were soaked, and my hands were numb.
He didn’t want to forget it.
I remember standing there, staring at my empty wallet.
Thinking I was stupid.
That I had made a mistake.
And that I couldn’t afford kindness.
***
The next few years weren’t easy.
I worked afternoons at a diner and nights at the library. I slept whenever the girls did, which wasn’t much.
There was a woman in my building, Mrs. Greene, who changed everything.
“You leave those babies with me when you’ve got a shift,” she told me one afternoon.
I had made a mistake.
I tried to pay her.
Mrs. Greene shook her head. “You finish school. That’s enough.”
So I did, slowly, one class at a time.
Lily and Mae grew up in that small, raggedy apartment, then another, then something a little better after I got steady work doing administrative support for a small firm.
It wasn’t easy.
But for a while, that felt like enough.
I tried to pay her.
***
Twenty-seven years passed. I am 44 now. My girls have grown.
Two years ago, somehow, life found a way to pull me under.
***
Mae got seriously ill when she was 25. It started small. Then it wasn’t.
