On an ordinary Tuesday, arms full of groceries, I stepped into the drizzle and saw her—a woman on the curb, cradling a baby wrapped in a faded blue blanket. Her face was pale, her eyes exhausted.

“Please,” she murmured. “Anything will help.”

I never give money to strangers, but something about her stillness, the way she clung to the child, rooted me in place. I handed her $50, hoping it would get them somewhere warm. That should have been the end of it.

The next morning, I went to visit my husband James’ grave. He’d been gone nearly two years, but grief never truly faded.

She was there.

The woman from the store, standing at his grave, slipping the fresh lilies I’d planted into a plastic bag.

“What the hell are you doing?” I demanded.

Her face crumpled. “I didn’t know… he was your husband. I didn’t even know where he was buried until someone told me. James is my baby’s father.”

The ground shifted beneath me.

“No,” I whispered. “No, he isn’t.”

“I wish I were lying,” she said. “I found out I was pregnant just before he disappeared. I thought he’d come back.”

Days passed in sleepless grief, but something changed. The anger ebbed, leaving only the baby—James’ baby. I went to her tiny apartment with groceries.

“I thought you might need help,” I said.

She let me in. The baby looked up at me with James’ eyes.

“I don’t know what this means,” I admitted. “But neither of us can do this alone.”

She nodded. Maybe this was a second chance.