It was a thin woman, her hair all disheveled, her clothes dirty and worn, her feet bare. She was carrying a baby in a front carrier. The child looked overheated, with flushed cheeks. The woman walked from car to car, holding out her hand, receiving coins that she counted quickly. It wasn’t a calm counting, but a desperate one, as if every coin determined her survival. For a moment, I thought, “What a shame!” But then I saw her face more clearly when she leaned down.
It was Emily, my daughter.
Without thinking, I rolled down the window. My voice came out before my brain could process what was happening. “Emily.”
She turned. Her eyes went wide, but not with surprise at finding me—with fear. The kind of fear felt by someone caught doing something shameful. She quickly covered her face with her hand, but it was already too late. I couldn’t move for several seconds. I just stared at her. I saw her hollowed cheekbones, her trembling hands. I saw the baby in the carrier—Isabella, my granddaughter. Her little head rested listlessly.
“Emily, get in, quick,” I said as I opened the passenger door. She hesitated for a moment and shook her head. “Dad, not here. Please let me—”