The door slammed.
And Keisha sat on frozen concrete, holding her crying child, feeling humiliation burn her hotter than the cold.
She didn’t cry until she stood up.
Then she cried the whole way home.
Halfway down the block, a voice called out.
“Baby… are you okay?”
Keisha turned and saw an older Black woman standing in her doorway, silver hair pulled back neat, eyes kind and sharp.
“I saw what happened,” the woman said. “Come here. Both of you.”
Keisha hesitated, embarrassed.
The woman didn’t.
She walked right up like she’d known Keisha her whole life and touched Marcus’s cheek.
“This baby’s burning up,” she said. “No, ma’am. Come inside.”
Her home smelled like fresh bread and warm memories.
She introduced herself as Martha.
She sat Keisha down by a little fireplace and pulled out a worn stethoscope from a kitchen drawer like she’d done it a hundred times.
