Smoke stuck to my clothes. My infants were safe, but everything else died. Standing barefoot in the cold night air, I held my five-year-old Luna. My baby Mateo was cradled on a stranger’s chest in a firefighter’s jacket. His uniform said A. Calderon, and the man holding him spoke sweetly while protecting Mateo’s tiny face from the cold with a glove. I didn’t recall giving him my baby. So much had transpired quickly. Fire, sirens, neighbors chattering outside. One minute, I was home. I had nothing next. Luna sniffed my shoulder. “Where will we sleep, Mommy?” My answer was blank.…
Author: World Wide
Unsure how that happened. I had visited the cemetery dozens of times, always traveling the same road and stopped at the same old oak tree before reaching Daniel’s tomb. Nothing looked familiar today. As the sun fell, my hands trembled as I held the bouquet. Chest constricted. Can I forget how? I took out my phone, but the battery was dead. Lucky me. Before panic could take hold, I observed a patrol cruiser slowly driving down the cemetery road. Stopping and exiting, the police must have observed my bewilderment. “Ma’am?” He spoke softly. Are you okay? Feeling humiliated, I swallowed…
I anticipated this. I told myself I’d be strong and help her a hundred times. However, nothing prepares you for your child sobbing in the back seat. “Daddy, please don’t go,” Emma wailed, holding her car seat straps like she could grasp onto me. Her small body shook with deep, gasping cries, cheeks crimson and eyes wet. My throat was thick, but I knelt alongside her and smiled. I brushed her curls out of her face and said, “Baby, it’s just for a little while.” “I’ll be back soon.” Shaking her head furiously. You won’t! You always say that, but…
I’ve been driving cars for eight years. Roads that never seem to end, long hauls, short runs, rain, and snow. I love the freedom, the quiet, and the sense of being in charge of something so big and strong. It’s not just a job. That’s my job. But what about my family? That’s not how they see it. My mom always asks me when I get home, “Are you still doing that truck thing?” as if it were a phase I’ll grow out of. My sister always tells me that I should “do something more feminine,” like become a teacher…
The last Sunday meal went as follows. I introduced Mallory, my fiancée, to my parents. She’s tall, broad-shouldered, golden blonde, and not size two. But Mallory is the kindest, smartest, and most loyal person I’ve met. She brightens every space she enters, even if she doesn’t fit the mold. Mom scarcely smiled when hugging her. Dad wouldn’t look at her. Each meal felt like sitting on a powder keg. As soon as Mallory left to take a call, my mom leaned in, excited. She said quite seriously, “Honey… Do you want to marry someone so big? You’re short. The match…
It started like any Tuesday. While carrying bags from the grocery shop, my eight-year-old son Ben skipped beside me and chatted about everything. We saw a policeman conversing by his vehicle halfway home. Ben tugged my sleeve and said, “Mama, can I ask him something?” He probably wanted to see the patrol car or ask about his badge, so I shrugged and said yes. Instead of typical kid queries, Ben approached and said, “Excuse me, sir,” in a measured voice. Can I pray for you? The cop was surprised. Half embarrassed, half fascinated, I froze. The officer looked at me,…
I was minding my own business at Millie’s Diner halfway through my shift, eating quickly. When youngsters in uniform come by, they usually say, “I wanna be a cop like you”. When a 9- or 10-year-old stood by my table, I smiled and asked his name. But he said nothing. Just placed a folded paper on the table and returned to the booth by the window, where a woman was stiff as a board, pretending not to look. I assumed it was a kid’s badge or police car doodling. The handwriting stopped me cold. “Please don’t speak. Mom’s scared. We…
My seven-year-old son Mateo has been hospitalized more than any child should. Leukemia. Stage three. The kind of diagnosis that makes you forget to breathe when the doctor says it. Some weeks ago, a nurse asked Mateo if he had a desire. He spoke clearly, “I wanna be a police officer.” Without hesitation. No doubts. That wide, resolute smile, like he could feel the badge on his small hospital gown. They might send him a sticker or toy badge. Something simple to cheer him up. But this morning? A different tale. There are noises in the hallway at 10 a.m.…
On a hot afternoon, McDonald’s AC was a blessing. I worked front counter during lunch rush—fries flying, kids yelling, ice cream machines barely holding together. After it quieted down at 2:30, I saw an older man by the corner table. The wheelchair-bound man stared at a melted soft-serve cone like it had beaten him. Customers walked past, pretending not to notice. I grabbed a stack of napkins and slid to his table for some reason. “Can I help you?” Half expecting him to ignore me, I asked. Instead, he nodded slightly. I sat down, wiped up the cone mess, and…
