Don't Forget

“Rosie, sweetie, can you just let Mommy help you, please? I’m already running behind.”

With my laptop precariously balanced on one knee, I reach for the phone buzz, buzz, buzzing away on the countertop and manage to answer on the last ring. Before the call is through, I have responded to three different emails and have also sent a quick message off to my boss, apologizing in advance for my tardiness.

All the while, Rosie sits cross-legged on the floor, her left shoe on her right foot, shoe strings clumsily held between chubby little fingers as she attempts to secure a knot.

I watch her fumble with the laces for a few more agonizing minutes before righting her shoes and tying them myself. Five minutes later, we are out the door, and six minutes after that, we make it to daycare. I stoop down and give Rosie a tight squeeze and chaste kiss, but my lips come away wet.

“Rosie, honey, you love daycare! You get to play with all your friends, and Miss Green is here today. You love Miss Green!”

“Mommy stay and play with me.” Rosie’s lip trembles, tears now soaking her yellow butterfly shirt. She reaches for me, and I scoop her up but not before stealing a quick glance at my watch.

“Mommy loves you so, so much. She’ll be back later to pick you up, okay?” I reassure her.

Rosie is full on wailing now. I grimace and mouth I’m so sorry to poor Miss Green as I transfer Rosie from my hip to hers. Rosie immediately turns into Miss Green’s embrace and runs her leaking nose right across Miss Green’s sweater, leaving a rather unfortunate trail of snot. I grimace, mouth one final I’m so sorry, and sneak out the door.

If I hustle, I think I can swing by the coffee shop for a quick caffeine hit before this headache takes hold. I can already feel it settling behind my eyes. I trudge onward, one foot in front of the other, glancing up from my phone every now and then, if only to ensure I’m not about to walk into oncoming traffic. Mid step, my shoe catches on a bit of uneven pavement, and I land hard on my knees, the phone skittering a few feet in front of me along with my purse and all its contents.

“Ugh, shit! Today is just not my day.” I mutter to myself.

I clutch my head in my hands, the headache building to a dull throb, not unlike the throbbing sensation I now feel in my ankle. I suppose my hope for a coffee run has well and truly evaporated.

“Are you alright, miss?” A gentle steady hand lands on my shoulder and helps move me from the pavement to a nearby bench. I grimace and clutch at my swollen ankle.

“That’s quite the nasty spill you took there, miss. I don’t think you’ll be able to make it to wherever it is you were going on foot with that ankle there,” the man says, gesturing a wrinkled hand to the ankle in question. “I can sit with you while we wait for a cab if you like. I’ve got nowhere in particular to be right now.”

“You’re too kind, sir. Really, it’s okay, I’ll ju-”

My phone comes to life from where it sits by my side, and I instinctively swipe to answer, my finger gliding across the cracked screen.

“Hello?”

“Hi Mrs. Davenport, Miss Green here. I know you just left, but I’m not sure what to do. Rosie is simply inconsolable. She hasn’t stopped crying since you left. I understand your work schedule is very busy, but I think it would be best if Rosie spent some time with you today?”

“Ugh, oh no. I’m in a bit of a bind right now. Could you try calling my husband? He might be able to pick Rosie up early today.”

“Oh, okay. Yes, of course, Mrs. Davenport.”

“Is that Mommy? Is she coming back to get me?” All I hear are the hushed, soothing tones of Miss Green’s voice before the line disconnects.

I feel the stranger’s gaze on me and turn to meet it, though he’s not looking at me, but the phone in my hand. There is a heaviness about this stranger I hadn't noticed before, in the way he talks and interacts with the world. He sits with shoulders hunched and eyes downcast. He has wrinkles, but not in any of the places that typically connote a happy, well-lived life. As he openly assesses me, the stranger seems to come to some sort of resolution. Watery eyes now clear, he offers his hand and says, “My name is Irv. And if it’s alright with you, I would like to tell you a story.”

“Charlotte,” I say, taking his hand in mine. Seemingly satisfied, Irv begins-

“Once upon a time, there was a young boy, born to a man and woman who entered into a marriage out of convenience. It was not a marriage defined by love, but tolerance, and even that may be too generous of a word for it.

It was a marriage of slamming doors and broken locks. Separate bedrooms and long business trips away from home. Terribly quiet evenings and terribly loud fights. A lifeless kitchen. A young boy sitting alone at the table, waiting, wanting, hoping. A family tied together with dental floss, destined to snap, no matter how skilled the young boy became with his knots. But the young boy was full of foolish hope, as many are at that age.

He threw himself into his studies. Early morning meetings with teachers and tutoring sessions after school. He afforded equal effort to every subject, though it was math he liked best. So much, in fact, that he joined the math club and became an official mathlete. He led his team all the way to a state championship. That night, he returned home with a trophy and a name plaque and a glorious story of his team’s victory, but the house was dark. His father had just left on a business trip, and his mother had gone to bed early without waiting up for him.

Maybe the young boy just needed to try a different approach…He wasn't immediately good at any sport he tried his hands at. But all he could think of were the football jerseys hanging in his father's office alongside pictures of his father surrounded by a team of strapping young men in heavy gear and football helmets. The boy trained with any free time he had. Sprinting and jumping, tackling and catching, throwing and dodging. He became so good, the football coach had no choice but to give him a permanent spot on the team. The coach's words, not the boy's. Brimming with excitement, the boy returned home to regurgitate those same words of praise to his father who simply grunted in acknowledgment, his gaze never lifting off the newspaper splayed in his lap. The boy was running out of ideas. And though he didn't know it yet, he was also running out of time.

He was the smartest-

He was the fastest-

He was the strongest-

He was the...well, he made himself out to be the best. He excelled in academics and athletics. He was beloved by teachers and coaches. He had loads of friends. But each night, he still found himself eating dinner alone at the kitchen table.

One day, the young boy returned home from a grueling day of school, the sweat still drying on his neck from an after-school football game, and he noticed his parents both sitting at the table. Can you imagine the relief this young boy must have felt? His knees nearly buckled from it. He jogged over to his spot, a big toothy grin on his face, ready to crack a joke about the sheer unbelievability of the situation when he was interrupted.

It was not the new beginning he had hoped for, but the beginning of the end.

The boy slammed his door so hard, the lock broke. His terribly loud screaming punctured the terribly quiet night. And the spot at the dining table, the one the boy had worked so tirelessly to preserve? Collected a layer of dust.

Life was mean, so the boy would be meaner. That angry young boy became an angry young teen. And that angry young teen became an angry young man. That angry young man married and soon became a father to one son and one daughter. Both were well-cared for, but that didn’t necessarily mean they were well-loved. The man watched his children grow up at a distance until they left for college and decided to never return home. The man, now old and retired, finds himself all alone.

To be needed, to be loved, is the best part of life. Don’t forget that, Charlotte.”

Irv digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, passing it to me. I reach up and touch my cheek, fingertips coming away wet. I hadn’t realized I’d been crying.

“Oh, look! Your cab arrived. Here, grab my arm, and I’ll help you get situated in the back.” Irv lends me his arm, but I grab him firmly around the neck and give him the biggest hug I can muster. Irv’s shirt is dotted with tear stains (and probably snot) when I finally pull away, but something about the tender joy in his face tells me he doesn’t mind.

“Where to, miss?” the cab driver asks once I’m settled in the backseat.

“Tiny Tots Daycare, please,” I tell him.