“Who are you?” Her voice was flat. Dead.
“Ma’am, my name is Robert Crawford. I stopped because I saw your son shooting hoops into a trash can. He told me about his daddy.”
She was rambling. Falling apart. This woman was drowning and nobody was throwing her a rope.
“Ma’am, I didn’t come here to ask for anything. I came to give you something.”
I reached into my vest and pulled out my wallet. Took out every bill I had. $347. It was supposed to be my gas money and food for the next week. I handed it to her.
“No.” She backed away. “I can’t take charity. Jerome wouldn’t want—”
“This isn’t charity, ma’am. This is one parent helping another. I lost my son when he was nine. Leukemia. I know what grief looks like. I know what drowning feels like.” I pressed the money into her hand. “Take it. Feed your boy. Pay a bill. Buy yourself one day of breathing room.”
She started crying. Deep, broken sobs. Marcus ran to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “It’s okay, Mama. The motorcycle man is nice. He’s not scary.”
I stood there awkwardly while this little family held each other. When she finally composed herself, she looked at me with red, swollen eyes.
“Why? You don’t know us. Why would you do this?”Continue reading…
