Six children. Two tucked into a stroller like bookends. Four orbiting their mama like fireflies with opinions. Loud ones. At the Dollar Store, she bought one thing—baby wipes. Just wipes. The kind of purchase that says this is what matters today. Not candy. Not toys. Not extras. Just the thing that keeps life moving forward when there are two in diapers and no room for indulgence.
The children asked anyway. Of course they did. Candy. Something shiny. Something fun. And their mama kept answering the same word—no—like a brave little drumbeat. Not angry. Not dramatic. Just steady. Loving. Firm. Tired.
I recognized her. I’d prayed with her once before, months earlier, when baby number six was still on the way. Time has a way of moving fast and slow at the same time, doesn’t it? She left the store before I did and didn’t see me. But I saw her.
