Single dad Danny’s quiet morning with his sick little son took an unexpected turn when he helped an elderly woman on the bus. The lady was a fortune teller and slipped a cryptic note into his hand. Danny accepted it, unaware that her parting words would soon haunt him in ways he never imagined.
It was one of those gray mornings in California, the kind that makes you feel like the universe hit snooze and forgot to wake up. My one-year-old son, Timmy, was strapped in his stroller, his tiny breaths fogging the clear plastic cover. He’d been burning up with a fever all night, and every little whimper had cut through me like glass.
I shoved a pacifier into his hand and double-checked the diaper bag slung over my shoulder. Formula? Check.
Spare clothes? Check. An exhausted father running on caffeine and prayer?
Also, check. Parenting solo wasn’t the life I’d envisioned. My wife Tami had been my everything, and when she passed during childbirth, it felt like the air had been sucked out of my world.
But Timmy was my anchor now, and every step I took was for him. “Almost there, buddy,” I murmured, adjusting his blanket. “We’ll get you feeling better soon, I promise.”
I touched his forehead gently, remembering the sleepless night before.
“Your mama would know exactly what to do right now,” I whispered, my voice catching. The bus screeched to a halt, and I hauled the stroller up with one hand, gripping the railing for balance. “Let’s go, man!
People got places to be!” the driver snapped. “My son’s sick,” I shot back, struggling with the stroller. “Just give me a second.”
“Whatever, just hurry it up.”
I bit back a stronger reply, settling Timmy into the corner.
The bus wasn’t crowded… just a few commuters with headphones or half-open newspapers. At the next stop, she got on. Likely in her 70s, the lady looked out of place.
Layers of flowing skirts draped around her fragile body, a scarf tied tightly over her head, and silver bangles jingled on her wrists. Her dark, kohl-lined eyes darted around nervously as she rummaged through an old leather purse. “I don’t have enough for the fare,” she told the driver, her voice low and tinged with an accent I couldn’t place.
He scowled. “LADY, I’M NOT RUNNING A CHARITY. IF YOU DON’T HAVE THE MONEY, YOU CAN WALK.
Pay or get off.”
She hesitated, looking visibly flustered. “Please. My name is Mama Rue.
I’ll read your fortune for free. Just let me ride.” Her hands trembled as she held them out. “Please, I… I need to get somewhere urgently.”
The driver rolled his eyes.
“I don’t want any of that mumbo jumbo. Pay or walk.”
Her face flushed, and she looked over her shoulder, her gaze catching mine for just a second before darting away. There was fear there, raw and real.
And something else I couldn’t quite place. “Hey! If you can’t pay, get off the bus already!” the driver barked, his voice sharp enough to make her flinch.
That was enough. And I stood up. “I’ve got it,” I said, digging into my pocket.
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