At the end of a double shift, the lights in the hospital corridors still seemed to hum, their bluish glow accentuating my fatigue. I’m thirty-three, a mother of two, and, despite myself, an expert in the art of daily survival. Since my husband disappeared—first from texts, then calls, then from our lives—it’s just me and my five- and seven-year-old daughters. For them, Christmas is magical: slightly twisted letters to Santa, heated debates about cookie flavors. For me, it’s a matter of survival: watching every penny, praying our old boiler will last another winter.
Two nights before Christmas, the city was covered in a thick layer of black ice. On the way home, I was still thinking about the half-wrapped presents and where our mischievous elf had hidden. My daughters were at my mother’s, probably asleep after watching too many Christmas movies. I was lost in thought when I spotted her.
She was standing at a bus stop, motionless against the wind, clutching a small package to her chest. My first instinct was to scream, « Don’t stop! You have children. It’s dark. » But another voice, higher-pitched, whispered, « What if it were you? What if it were your baby? »
I parked. The window creaked under the frost. Up close, she looked exhausted by the cold: tangled hair, chapped lips. The baby in her arms, with rosy cheeks, had a small, stiff hand protruding from a thin blanket.
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