After my divorce, I started volunteering at the food bank just to cope. Then one rainy Thursday, Dariel’s mom showed up—the woman who once told me I was “too emotional” for her son.
She didn’t recognize me at first. But when our eyes met, she whispered,
“It’s your fault I’m here.”
I couldn’t shake it. I found out she’d lost her home. Dariel had moved away. She was living in a motel.
Eventually, I asked if she needed anything.
“I need my son to stop hating me,” she said.
I called Dariel. Left a voicemail.
A week later, they came together. Quiet. Side by side.
As she passed, Dariel looked at me.
“Thanks,” he said.
Days later, I got a card with a pressed flower inside.
“We’re trying. Thank you. –D”
I started volunteering to distract myself.
But in the end, I helped them find their way back—
and found a piece of myself, too.
