Her voice trembled, but she didn’t cry. “It’s that everyone thinks there has to be a villain,” she said. “If a mother is struggling, she must be irresponsible. If a person helps, they must be showing off. If someone is angry, they must be evil. Nobody can handle the idea that life is just… hard.”
I stared at her and felt the weight of all the comments I’d seen without reading them.
“How’s the baby?” I asked.
Her face softened like someone turned down the volume of her pain.
“Eli,” she said. “His name is Eli.”
My throat tightened.
“Is he okay?” I asked again, slower.
She nodded. “Better,” she said. “The formula helped. The shelf helped. People helped.”
Then she added, almost ashamed, “And yes—some people also took pictures of me while I was trying to buy it. Like I was entertainment.”
My jaw clenched.
I wanted to say something violent.
I didn’t.
I took a breath.
“Can I see him?” I asked.
Maya hesitated.
Then she said, “He’s not here. He’s at home with my aunt. I’m working doubles.”
Of course she was.
Of course.