On the way, he stopped at a grocery store. He filled a cart without a list, choosing milk, diapers, rice, bread, baby food, and anything else that felt necessary. Then he drove toward our neighborhood, guided by an address typed by a frightened child.
I waited on the stairs of our apartment building because the elevator had been broken for months, its doors taped shut and ignored. The stairwell smelled like dust and damp concrete. My brother had finally fallen asleep against my shoulder, his breathing shallow and warm. Every sound made me tense.
When a dark sedan pulled up outside, my heart jumped. A tall man stepped out, dressed neatly, his movements calm and unhurried. He did not look angry or dangerous. He looked tired in a way I recognized.
We climbed the stairs together in silence. He carried the bags without complaint. When we reached our door, it opened from the inside.
My mother had just come home. She froze when she saw him, her posture stiff with instinctive defense. I rushed to explain, my words tumbling over each other.
“I am sorry. I sent him the message. The baby was hungry. I did not know what else to do.”
My mother’s face hardened.