But life doesn’t always ask what you’re ready for. Sometimes it just hands you a diaper bag, a bottle, and a choice: stand up, or fall apart.

I didn’t get a grace period. There was no time to grieve, or plan, or even catch my breath.

One morning, I was the mother of a grown son who loved eating ribs and watching baseball with his socks on. By the end of that same week, I was tucking his infant son into a crib, alone.

My son, Michael, was the kind of man who made you proud to be a mother. He was kind, honest, and a quiet protector. He married young to a woman named Clara, beautiful, ambitious, and polished in a way I never quite understood.

She loved the spotlight, the city, and the movement of it all.

But motherhood? Not so much.

Michael adored their son, Evan. He’d send me photos almost every day. Photos of Evan sleeping in his arms, of Evan smiling at the ceiling fan, and even little Evan, just two months old, giggling at nothing.

Then, on one rainy Thursday, Michael died in a car accident on his way home from work. A delivery truck ran a red light, and just like that… my son was gone.

Five days later, Clara walked into my living room, holding Evan in one arm and a designer diaper bag in the other. Her face was clean and untouched by grief.

“I can’t do this, Linda,” she said, setting the bag on my couch. “I’m not made for bottles and sleepless nights. I have a life to live.”

And then she walked out without a goodbye or even a promise of when she’d be okay, just a cab idling outside to take her to a man she’d met two months earlier. She moved states away and never once called to check in.

That’s how Evan became my world.

I wasn’t ready, but I didn’t hesitate for a moment. My grandson was the only living connection I had to my son.

I work as a cleaner at the local community center. Sometimes, if there’s an event, then I’m called in to be a part of the catering staff. It’s not glamorous, but it’s honest work, and it keeps food in the fridge.

Most mornings, I’m up by five, moving through the house in silence while Evan sleeps in his crib. I pack a bottle, pull on my thickest socks, and whisper a quiet prayer over his tiny chest before slipping out the door with tired eyes and aching knees.

Some days, my neighbor, Janet, helps with Evan. She’s one of those women who always know when you need a hand before you even ask for one.

“Let me help, Linda,” she always says. “You can’t pour from an empty cup. And I’m old and lonely; I need this, too.”

I tried to believe her. But some days, the cup isn’t just empty, it’s cracked.

That morning Evan had kept me up half the night with a runny nose and restless whimpers. It wasn’t anything serious, but it was just enough to make me worry.

I didn’t want to take any chances, not with him this little.

I bundled him up in his soft blue blanket and took him to the clinic. I didn’t have money for a taxi; there were too many bills that month, so I wrapped my coat tightly and carried him through two blocks in the bitter morning air until we reached the bus stop.

When the bus arrived, I climbed on and found a spot near the middle, grateful for a seat. Evan was quiet at first, his pacifier bobbing gently as he snuggled into my chest.

“We’re almost there, baby boy,” I said, rocking him gently. “Gran’s got you.”

But halfway through the ride, he started to fuss. It was little whimpers at first, then louder cries. I pulled out Evan’s bottle, but he pushed it away. I bounced him in my arms, but his cries wouldn’t subside.

I could feel it, the stares and the judgment thick in the air.

“Shh, sweetheart, we’re almost there,” I murmured, rocking him harder.

Then, a sharp crack startled me. The man beside me had slapped his palm against the seat in front of him.

“For God’s sake, lady,” he barked. “Shut that baby up!”

I flinched, my heart dropping in my chest.

“I… I’m trying. He’s not feeling well,” I said softly, my voice catching despite my best efforts to stay composed.

The man snorted and leaned away from me as if disgusted.

“Maybe don’t drag a screaming brat onto public transport. Some of us actually have jobs to get to,” he said.

“I have a job too,” I murmured, though it came out small. “I’m doing my best.”

He scoffed, loud and sharp.

“Oh yeah? Doing what, begging? This whole bus has to suffer because you can’t manage your own kid?”

The words hit like a slap in the face. I blinked hard, trying to keep the tears from rising, my throat burning with humiliation. Around us, the bus had gone tense and quiet. I felt the stares, but no one spoke up.