I nearly dialed 911 on the tattooed teenager holding a screaming baby inside an empty 1 AM laundromat. Then his bag tore open, and my stomach sank with utter shame.

across the bed at me.

His eyes were tired.

But peaceful.

For the first time in years, truly peaceful.

“She’s okay,” he whispered.

I nodded.

“She is.”

And downstairs, in the quiet house that was no longer quiet, the last birthday balloon drifted slowly across the living room floor.

Not forgotten.

Not lost.

Just moving gently through a home that had somehow made continue reading …