For illustrative purposes only
I led her through the employees-only door into our little break room — a sink, four chairs, a sturdy counter. I opened the box: a folding changing pad, wipes, diapers in three sizes, disposal bags, diaper cream, two plain cotton onesies.
Lana stared. “You have all that?”
“We get a lot of families through here.” That wasn’t the whole reason.
I spread the pad across the counter. “Put him here.” Her hands shook so badly she struggled with the snaps.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“All of this,” she said, gesturing at the baby, the wet clothes, her stained sweatshirt.
“You don’t need to apologize for being a mom.” She admitted she’d known he needed changing but kept thinking he’d fall asleep, and every stop only made the screaming worse. She just wanted to get home. “What’s his name?” I asked.
“Micah.”
“Well, Micah’s had a rough afternoon.” That got half a laugh out of her.
