You need a home and I need a mommy. The rain was relentless that afternoon, drumming against the bus stop shelter like impatient fingers. Huddled on the cold bench was Sophie, a 23, year old with no coat, no luggage, just a frayed backpack and a paper coffee cup half, filled with coins.
She’d been homeless for six months now, each day blurring into the next, each night colder than the last. Her reflection in the glass pane showed tired eyes and hair that had lost its shine long ago. She was staring at the puddles when a small voice broke through the storm.
Hi. You look really cold. Sophie turned.
A little girl, maybe seven, stood there holding a pink umbrella far too big for her. She had chestnut braids, bright green eyes, and the kind of curious smile only children have. I’m okay.
Sophie lied, just waiting for the bus. The girl tilted her head, studying her for a long moment, then said something that made Sophie’s breath catch. You need a home and I need a mommy.
Sophie froze. She glanced around, expecting a parent nearby. Sure enough, a man in his late 30s in a tailored suit was walking toward them, holding two grocery bags.
Lila, what did I tell you about talking to strangers? The man said, his voice firm but not unkind. But Daddy, the girl protested, she looks sad, she looks lonely. The man sighed, clearly used to his daughter’s habit of speaking her mind.
Come on, we have to go. But Lila wouldn’t move. Please, Daddy, can she come home with us? Sophie gave a small, awkward laugh…
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