Some nights, I lie awake listening to the hum of the old fridge, wondering how long I can keep this pace before something gives out.

I didn’t always live like this. Mason and I were married for five years. Back then, we shared dreams of a modest home and a big backyard where our son could play. But all of that crumbled when I found out he was cheating on me with a woman named Stacy, of all people. She used to be our neighbor. I still remember the way he looked at me when I confronted him, like I was the one who’d ruined everything.

When we divorced, he somehow convinced the court to let him keep the house. He said it was better for Stan to have a “stable environment,” even though Stan doesn’t even live with him full-time.

Now Mason plays house with Stacy while I scrape together rent for a rundown two-bedroom that smells like mildew in the summer and freezes over in the winter. The faucet leaks and the heater rattles, but that’s all I can afford.

Some nights I catch myself driving past that house, watching their lights glow in the windows, and it feels like I’m staring at the life that was supposed to be mine.

So yeah, money’s tight. Painfully tight.

It was a foggy Saturday morning when I found myself at the edge of a flea market, clutching the last $5 bill in my wallet. I had no business being there, but Stan had outgrown his sneakers again. His toes had started curling at the tips, and every time I saw him trip, I felt this crushing guilt settle in my chest.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky,” I muttered, pulling my coat tighter against the cold.

The market stretched out across an empty parking lot, with rows of mismatched tables and old tents piled high with forgotten things waiting for a second chance. I wandered past chipped mugs, tangled cords, and plastic crates filled with yellowing books. The air smelled of damp cardboard and stale popcorn.

Stan tugged on my sleeve. “Mommy, look! A dinosaur!”

I glanced down. He was pointing at a broken figurine missing half its tail. I smiled weakly.

“Maybe next time, sweetheart.”

That’s when I saw them.

A pair of tiny brown leather shoes. Soft, worn-in, but in amazing shape. The stitching looked perfect, and the soles barely had a mark. They were toddler-sized, just right for Stan.

I rushed over to the vendor, an older woman with short gray hair and a thick knitted scarf. Her table was covered in odds and ends: picture frames, costume jewelry, and some old purses.

“How much for the shoes?” I asked.

She looked up from her thermos and smiled warmly. “Six dollars, sweetheart.”

My heart sank. I held out the crumpled bill between my fingers. “I only have five. Would you… maybe take that?”

She hesitated. I could see the conflict flicker across her face. Then she nodded slowly.

“For you, yes.”

I blinked, surprised. “Thank you. Really.”

She waved it off. “It’s a cold day. No child should be walking around with cold feet.”

As I walked away with the shoes tucked under my arm, it felt like a small victory. Nothing life-changing, but enough to make me feel like I’d managed to protect my son in the tiniest way. The leather felt soft under my arm, and for the first time that week, the weight on my chest eased just a little.

Back home, Stan was on the floor, building lopsided towers with his plastic blocks. He looked up as I stepped in.

“Mommy!”

“Hey, buddy,” I said, putting on my best cheerful voice. “Look what I got you.”

His eyes widened. “New shoes?”

“Yep. Try them on.”

He sat on the floor, legs stretched out. I helped him slide them on, gently tugging the leather over his socks. They fit like a dream.

But then we both heard it, a soft crackling sound from inside one of the shoes.

Stan frowned. “Mom, what’s that?”

I paused, confused. I pulled off the left shoe and pressed down on the insole. There it was again — a quiet crinkle, like paper rubbing against itself.

My stomach turned. I reached into the shoe and slowly lifted the padded insert.

Tucked underneath was a piece of paper, neatly folded, its edges yellowed with time. The handwriting was small, almost cramped, but unmistakably human. My hands trembled as I opened it.

Stan leaned closer, his tiny hands clutching my knee as if he already sensed this was no ordinary secret.

“To whoever finds this:

These shoes belonged to my son, Jacob. He was only four when he got sick. Cancer stole him from me before he even got the chance to live his childhood. My husband left us when the medical bills piled up. Said he couldn’t handle the ‘burden.’ Jacob never really wore these shoes. They were too new when he passed away. I don’t know why I’m keeping them. I don’t know why I’m keeping anything. My home is full of memories that choke me. I have nothing left to live for. If you’re reading this, please just… remember that he was here. That I was his mom. And that I loved him more than life itself.