Ethan held up the bags. It’s formula and food. No strings. You asked for $50 and I wanted to do more than send money. The baby whimpered. Clara’s arms tightened automatically. You came to the Bronx at midnight on New Year’s Eve to bring formula to a stranger. Yes. Why? Ethan looked at her, really looked past the fear and exhaustion because 30 years ago, my mother was in the same situation and nobody came.
Something cracked in Clara’s face. Your mother? She was a single mother in Queens. Worked three jobs that still weren’t enough. She died when I was eight because she couldn’t afford to see a doctor. Clara was silent. Her eyes flicked to her daughter, then back to him. I grew up in foster care after that. Group homes fighting for food.
Ethan’s voice was steady, but something underneath it wasn’t. I swore that if I ever had the chance to help someone the way no one helped my mother, I would take it. The chain rattled. The door opened wider. Clara stood in the doorway of the saddest apartment Ethan had ever seen. A hot plate on a rickety table, a mattress on the floor, a crib from a garage sale,and the empty formula can on the counter like a monument to everything gone wrong. I’m Clara. This is Lily.
Ethan Mercer. He stepped inside, setting down the bags. I believe someone is hungry. The clock hit midnight just as Lily started eating. Fireworks boom somewhere outside. Probably the wealthy neighborhoods celebrating in style. The sound couldn’t quite reach this apartment. Only a faint glow made it through the thin window.
But Clara wasn’t watching fireworks. She was watching her daughter drink for the first time in hours. Tiny hands grasping at the bottle, eyes slowly closing in contentment. There you go, sweetheart. There you go. Ethan stood by the window, giving her space. She studied him while Lily fed.
