Witmore,” she said quietly. “For bus money,” he said. Roshelle sat down at the kitchen table, motioning for Nia to join her. The wooden chair creaked as she leaned forward, placing the envelope between them. “Baby, we need to talk about this. We don’t take money from strangers. But he’s not really a stranger anymore, Mama.
Nia protested, her hands folded neatly in her lap. I’ve been bringing him breakfast every morning for weeks now. That’s different, Rochelle said, running her thumb along the envelope’s sealed edge. Sharing food is one thing. Money is something else entirely. Her voice softened as she remembered her own mother’s warnings about pride and necessity, about the fine line between kindness and dependency.
Nia’s eyes welled up with tears, but she blinked them back. He never asks for anything, mama. He just listens. When I tell him about school or about the birds I see on my way there, or about anything really, he looks at me like what I’m saying matters. Roshelle felt something twist in her chest. Recognition perhaps or worry.
