The clinic wouldn’t see Bruno without money.
And my ex—gone for two years with a waitress from Mobile—had taken whatever hope I had left with him. No money. No calls. Not even a message on birthdays. Some men leave like storms. Others like rot. He managed to be both.
That morning, I kissed Bruno’s burning forehead and forced a smile.
“I’ll be back soon,” I whispered.
“You bring medicine?” he asked, his voice weak.
I swallowed hard. “Something better.”
He tried to smile for me. That almost broke me.
I spent hours walking through downtown, asking everywhere—restaurants, laundromats, corner stores, even a salon—if they needed help. Some didn’t look up. Others saw my worn clothes, my tired face, and said no without hesitation.
By noon, the Alabama heat made the pavement shimmer.
I stopped outside a polished café where people sat drinking coffee that cost more than my family spent on food in a week. For a moment, I imagined stealing a plate and running. Hunger doesn’t make you noble. It makes everything louder.
Then I heard them talking.
“I need someone immediately,” an older woman said, her voice sharp and precise. “Mr. Haines has dismissed three caretakers already.”