I was a single mother, and every afternoon a neighbor would show up to ask me for salt

She stood there with quivering lips and told me that salt was the only excuse she could invent to knock on my door without feeling ashamed of what she truly needed.

At first, I didn’t understand. The anger that had been swelling inside my chest slowly dissolved into confusion, and then into a quiet, creeping guilt.

Margaret explained that ever since her husband died two years ago, her apartment had grown unbearably silent. Some days passed without her hearing another human voice.

Her children lived far away in other cities, busy with careers and families of their own. They called now and then, but rarely came to see the mother who had once guided their tiny steps.

“I don’t really need the salt,” she confessed softly, twisting the edge of her cardigan as though afraid I might shut the door before she finished. “I just needed a reason to see a friendly face. To hear someone say good afternoon. To remember that I still exist.”

Her words filled the narrow hallway between us, heavy and painfully honest.

Behind me, Lily stepped closer and wrapped her small arms around my waist, sensing the shift even if she didn’t fully understand it.