Those eyes… they’d seen too much, carried too many burdens. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought she might bolt again, her body coiled like a spring ready to escape. The pain of loss was etched into every line of her small body like a protective armor she’d learned to wear since losing her parents.
“Wait,” I said, holding my hands out in a universal gesture of peace, palms open and visible. “I just want to talk. Don’t be scared, little one.”
“I didn’t mean to bother you,” she stammered. “You’re not bothering me,” I responded softly, my voice intentionally gentle, trying to convey safety and warmth. “Come inside.
I’ve got cookies and warm milk. Would you like some?”
Something shifted in that moment. Her shoulders — those tiny shoulders that had been carrying the weight of an entire family’s survival — sagged just a little.
The smallest hint of vulnerability emerged, like a tender shoot breaking through hardened ground. She nodded, a simple, almost imperceptible movement that spoke volumes about her desperate need for kindness. And just like that, a bridge began to form between two strangers, built on the fragile foundation of human compassion.
Inside, Libbie sat at my kitchen table, her small frame dwarfed by the oversized chair. She clutched the mug of warm milk with both hands, her fingers, small and slightly callused from crafting toys, wrapped tightly around the ceramic. Each nibble of the cookie seemed calculated, as if she was afraid the food might suddenly disappear.
“Why didn’t you just knock instead of leaving your bag at my doorstep?” I asked gently. She shrugged and her eyes remained fixed on her lap, unable to meet mine. “I saw you watching me from the window.
I thought… maybe you’d be nice. But sometimes, people chase me away when I try to sell the toys. They say I’m bothering them.” The words tumbled out with a pang of hope and resignation that no child should ever know.
“Sweetie,” I said, the word slipping out instinctively. Her head shot up, and in that instant, something profound happened. Her lip trembled, not just with sadness, but with a complex mix of remembered love and current pain.
Libbie nodded, a tiny movement that carried the entire weight of her loss.
“She was the best. My dad too. Every morning, we’d go to the bus stop together.
He’d take me to school. And every evening, my mom would wait for us there. I… I just like standing there.
It makes me feel like they’re still here… around me.”
The rawness of her words cut through me. A child’s attempt to hold onto memories, to keep her parents alive in the only way she knew how… by recreating their routine, by standing at that bus stop, and by refusing to let go. I reached across the table and covered her tiny hand with mine.
“You’re not alone, Libbie. I’m here, and we’ll figure this out. Together.”
That very moment, something shifted.Continue reading…
