I was taking revenge on you for my daughter. Instead of taking care of me personally, she preferred to hire strangers. She comes only once a month — just to hand over money. She pushed the grandchildren away from their grandmother, as if I were some shameful burden to be hidden far away. I hoped that if you left, she would finally reconcile with me…”

“Who is this again? A Moldovan woman? Oh Lord! Moldovans, Gypsies… Do you want this woman to steal from me?” — the old lady shouted when she saw me.

Yes, I came to the city from Moldova. I was twenty-seven, and our family had big problems: my mother was about to have a serious operation, and we were still paying off a mortgage. So I packed up and left to earn money. I set a deadline for myself — a year or a year and a half. Then I planned to return to a normal life.

Following the advice of my employer — 60-year-old Alevtina Alexandrovna — I began working as a caregiver for her mother, 84-year-old Vera Ivanovna. It was not easy. I helped her wash, did her hair, washed clothes, prepared diet meals, bought groceries and medicine. But the old woman remained cold, unfriendly, often rude.

Every morning it became harder to wake up and go to work. Lying in bed, I listened to Vera Ivanovna shifting, shuffling in her slippers, coughing, and cursing “that Moldovan idler.” The job was not for the weak. Besides constant nagging and mockery, I barely got any sleep. In the evenings, when the old lady went to bed, I cleaned the apartment, cooked in advance, or went to the night store — during the day she could not be left alone even for a minute.

Every day demanded enormous effort to stay. Only the thought of my family gave me the strength to continue.

But my patience ran out when after six months Vera Ivanovna claimed I had stolen five thousand rubles from her. I explained that I took nothing — I clean every day and would have noticed the bill.

“That’s exactly it!” she hissed. “You clean so often on purpose, to steal what I forget to hide!”

I was shocked. This woman had no desire to be fair. A real scandal began. She called her daughter, who came over, then called the police. After a search (especially thorough in my belongings), the money was found in her own purse. The police left, Alevtina left too, but Vera Ivanovna never apologized. She just remained silent, proud and haughty.

That incident was the last straw. I was running out of strength.

“I’m leaving,” I announced and began to pack my suitcase — clothes, documents scattered around the room where I lived.

“You want to quit a good city job?” she snorted, standing in the doorway. “And what about your life in Moldova? You’re poor there anyway.”

“I’ll manage,” I answered calmly. “There will be some kind of job. I’ll cope.”

“Then why did you even come if you’re afraid of difficulties?” she asked, curling her lip.

“To pay for my mother’s operation and repay the mortgage,” I blurted out, though I would never have shared that before. I was just nervous. “But I don’t want to stay here anymore. Let them pay less, but no one will call me a thief or humiliate me. Find yourself another helper. Pity her though…”

We stared at each other for a long time. She was shorter than me, thin, pale, covered in wrinkles. But her blue eyes could pierce even the most confident person. Yet now I was not afraid of her. It was over. I was leaving.

I was about to return to my suitcase when I heard her unexpectedly quiet question:

“Are you enduring all this to save your mother?”

Her words struck me to the core.

I expected another jab or mockery, but Vera Ivanovna’s voice sounded different. There was no longer scorn or arrogance — only surprise, almost confusion… and, it seemed to me, even regret.

“What’s strange about that?” I answered. “I’m her only daughter. Although ‘save’ is too strong a word. Mom just has cataracts, her vision is poor. But it’s treatable. The operation is simple, about thirty minutes under anesthesia — and that’s it.”

“Why not do it for free?” she asked. “Isn’t there state healthcare in your country?”

“There is, of course,” I nodded. “But the wait would be long. And I don’t want mom to give up her favorite things: reading, crosswords, books. Living with poor eyesight is hard. She worked all her life, toiled without rest. I want her to feel good now, at least in retirement…”

I stopped mid-sentence. I noticed tears glistening in the old lady’s eyes. She lowered her head, but the trembling shoulders showed she was crying. Suddenly, a sharp feeling of pity overwhelmed me. The resentment that had built up for so long vanished without a trace.

Carefully, I hugged her. I feared a new outburst of irritation. Vera Ivanovna tensed as if she wanted to break free, but then suddenly pressed her whole body to me. I was stunned! She sobbed uncontrollably.

“Forgive me,” she whispered after a long pause. “I was unfair. I don’t know what came over me… I’m not really so cruel…”

“It’s okay, it’s nothing,” I stroked her gray hair.

I felt a little awkward around this new, unexpectedly gentle woman. I wanted to lighten the mood:

“We just didn’t understand each other at first. Our relationship just didn’t work out, so to speak…”

“No, that’s not it!” she exclaimed, straightening up and freeing herself from my arms.

I feared an angry outburst, but Vera Ivanovna squeezed my hand tightly and, trembling slightly, said:

“I have to confess… I was taking revenge on you for my daughter. Alevtina prefers to hire caregivers rather than be near me. She comes only once a month — just to bring money. She pushed the grandchildren away as if I were some kind of plague, as if old age were shameful and disgusting. As if she needed to be hidden. Subconsciously, I hoped that if you gave up and left, Alevtina would finally accept me…”

So we cried together. After that day, our relationship changed radically. At first, we spoke cautiously, choosing words, then began telling each other about our lives. She shared memories — how she raised her daughter alone, how she fought for her future. I told about my strange long-distance marriage: my husband worked at construction in another city to pay off the apartment loan, and I was in the city. We didn’t have children yet because we couldn’t afford it. Though we wanted them very much.

Over time, we became close people. When I told her that my mother had a successful operation, Vera Ivanovna sincerely rejoiced. She asked how much more was left on the loan and even gave me a bonus so I could visit my husband for a few days.

But this unexpected friendship did not last long. Four months after our reconciliation, Vera Ivanovna passed away in her sleep. Quietly, peacefully.

When they took her away, I was cleaning the apartment, packing things and holding back tears. It felt like I had lost a close person.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. A worried Alevtina appeared, accompanied by a middle-aged man in a business suit — he introduced himself as the mother’s lawyer.

I tensed internally, expecting another accusation. But I heard something completely different:

“I must inform you about Vera Ivanovna’s will. You are bequeathed…” — and he named the sum.

It was exactly the amount I needed to close the mortgage!

“What tricks do you know to make my mother leave you so much money?” Alevtina spat angrily.

I looked at her in bewilderment.

“Tricks? I’ll show you them now!” I smiled and suddenly hugged her tightly.

She screamed in outrage, breaking free, and I went to call my husband — we had to urgently tell him we were coming home.

Outside the windows of the houses, warm lights of garlands were glowing, Christmas trees were reflected in the glass, and sounds of New Year’s melodies could be heard. And beyond these walls—there reigned a white silence. Snow fell in thick flakes, as if someone invisible was endlessly sprinkling it from the sky. The silence was so dense it seemed almost sacred—like in a temple. No footsteps, no voices. Only the howling of the wind in the pipes and the soft rustle of falling snow, which seemed to cover the city with a blanket of forgotten destinies.

Kolya Sukhanov stood on the porch. He had not yet realized that all this was actually happening. It seemed like a nightmare—a senseless and cruel one. But the cold pierced through his clothes, soaked his socks, and the icy wind cut his face. The backpack lying in the snowdrift reminded him of reality.

«Get out of here! I don’t ever want to see you again!» — a hoarse, hateful voice of his father broke him out of numbness. Immediately after came the slam of the door shutting right in front of his nose.

His father had kicked him out. On Christmas night. Without belongings. Without farewell. Without a chance to return.

And his mother? She stood nearby, pressed against the wall. She folded her arms on her chest. Did not say a word. Did not try to stop her husband. Did not say: «This is our son.» She only helplessly shrugged and bit her lip to keep from crying.

She just stayed silent.

Kolya slowly stepped down from the porch, feeling the snow seep into his slippers, pricking his skin with icy needles. He didn’t know where to go. Inside, it was empty—as if his heart had fallen deep under his ribs.

«That’s it, Kolya. You’re nobody’s. Not even theirs. Especially theirs.»

He did not cry. His eyes were dry, only a sharp pain in his chest reminded him he was alive. It was too late to cry. It was all over. No turning back.

And he walked. Not knowing where. Through the blizzard. Under the light of street lamps that illuminated empty streets. Behind windows, people laughed, drank tea, opened presents. But he was alone. In the middle of a celebration where there was no place for him.

How many hours he wandered—he didn’t remember. The streets blurred into one. A security guard chased him away from an entrance, passersby avoided him when they saw his gaze. He was a stranger. Unwanted. Unnecessary.

This was how his winter began. His first winter of loneliness. The winter of survival.

For the first week, Kolya slept wherever he could—on benches, in underpasses, in bus shelters. Everyone chased him away—shopkeepers, guards, random passersby. In their eyes, he saw not pity but irritation. A boy in a worn-down down jacket, with red eyes and a disheveled appearance—a living reminder of what they themselves feared.

He ate what he could: scraps from garbage bins, once stole a loaf from a stall while the seller was distracted. For the first time in his life, he became a thief. Not out of malice, but out of hunger. Out of fear of dying.

By evening he found shelter—a deserted basement in an old five-story building on the outskirts. It smelled of mold, cat tracks, and something stale. But it was warm—the weak steam rising from a nearby heating main was enough to survive the night. The basement became his home. He spread newspapers, collected cardboard, and covered himself with rags found in the trash.

Sometimes he just sat and cried silently. No tears. Only convulsions in his chest, a clenched pain inside.

One day, an old man with a cane and a long beard found him. He glanced once and said:

«Alive? Well, that’s good. I thought it was the cats turning over bags again.»

The old man left a can of stew and a piece of bread. Just like that. Kolya did not thank him. He just ate greedily with his hands.

After that day, the old man sometimes appeared again. Brought food. Asked no questions. Only once he muttered:

«I was also fourteen when my mother died, and my father hanged himself. Hang in there, boy. People are bastards. But you—you’re not like them.»

Those words stayed with Kolya. He repeated them to himself when he had no strength left.

One morning he could not get up. He felt nauseous, chilled, his whole body shook. A fever burned his temples, his legs gave out. The snow blew him into the basement as if it wanted to freeze him itself. He did not remember how he got out. From what he recalled—he just crawled, clinging to the stairs until someone’s hands picked him up.

«My God, he’s frozen through!» a female voice, strict but full of concern, cut through his consciousness.

That’s how he first saw Anastasia Petrovna—a social worker from the department for minors. Tall, in a dark coat, with tired but attentive eyes. She hugged him like her own, pressed him close—as if she knew he hadn’t felt such warmth for a long time.

«Quiet, son. I’m here. Everything will be fine. Hear me?»

He heard her. Through delirium, through cold shivers. Those words were the first human warmth after many months of loneliness.

Kolya was taken to a shelter on Dvoretskaya Street—a small building with peeling walls but clean sheets and the smell of home-cooked food: potatoes, cabbage soup, quiet hope. He got a bed. A thick blanket. And, most unexpectedly—a sleep without fear. For the first time in many months.

Anastasia Petrovna came every day. Asked how he felt. Brought books. Not childish, not silly fairy tales—but real ones. Chekhov, Kuprin. And then—even a copy of the Constitution.

«Listen, Kolya,» she said, handing him a book. «Knowing your rights means being protected. Even if you have nothing. If you know them—you are no longer helpless.»

He nodded. Read. Absorbed every word like a sponge absorbs water.

Day by day, he grew more confident. Something alive, hot was growing inside. A desire to become someone who knows. Who can protect. Who won’t walk past a child standing barefoot in the snow.

When Kolya turned eighteen, he passed the Unified State Exam and enrolled in the law faculty at Tver State University. It seemed almost impossible—more like a dream than reality. He was afraid he wouldn’t manage. That everything would fall apart. But Anastasia Petrovna just smiled:

«You will manage. You have something inside you that many don’t—a backbone.»

He studied by day and worked at night—mopping floors in a snack bar near the station. Sometimes he slept right in the storeroom between shifts. Drank black tea from a thermos, read everything he could, saved money on food to last until the end of the month. Slept little. Wrote term papers. But never once said, «I can’t.» Never once gave up.

In his second year, he became an assistant at a legal consultation office. He sorted papers, swept floors, ran errands. But he was close. Watched, learned, listened to cases like others listen to music. Like a living textbook.

By the fourth year, he was already writing statements for clients himself. Free of charge. Especially for those who couldn’t afford to pay. Once he was asked to come to a woman in a worn jacket.

«You don’t have money, right?» he asked directly. «Don’t worry. I will help.»

«And who are you?»

«A student for now. But soon I will be someone who can officially protect you.»

She smiled. As if hearing for the first time: «You are not alone.»

When Kolya turned twenty-six, he worked in a large law firm but continued to consult for free those who had nowhere else to turn. Children from orphanages came to him, women after abuse, elderly people cheated out of housing. No one left empty-handed.

He remembered what it was like to be unwanted by anyone. And he didn’t want anyone else to go through that again.

His parents disappeared from his life that Christmas night. He never searched for them again. Didn’t call. Didn’t remember. That night he stopped being their son. And they—his parents.

And now, in winter, when snow was falling again outside the window, two people entered his office. A man with a bent back and a woman in an old headscarf. He recognized them immediately. Something distant froze inside, as if recalling voices from another world.

«Kolya…» — a hoarse, weak voice of his father. «Forgive us… Son.»

His mother gently touched his hand. Her eyes were full of tears. But not those that spilled then. Completely different ones.

Kolya was silent. Watched. There was no pain. No scream inside. Only emptiness.

«You’re late,» he said calmly. «I died for you at that moment. And you—for me too.»

He stood up, walked to the door, held it.

«I wish you health. But there’s no way back.»

They stood a little while, then slowly left. Without hysteria, without excuses. Just left. As if they understood: there was only one chance. And they missed it.

Kolya returned to his desk, opened a new case—about a teenager who ran away from an orphanage. He read, concentrated. No longer trembling. No longer doubting.

Everything that happened to him was not in vain. Every night in the basement. Every stolen piece of bread. Every «go away.»

All of it made him who he became. Someone who can say to another:

«I’m here. You’re not alone.»

And somewhere in his memory still echoed Anastasia Petrovna’s voice:

«Rights are your shield. Even if you have nothing.»

Now he himself became that shield. For those who stand barefoot in the snow.

While jogging through a quaint seaside town, I was stopped by an insistent little girl who claimed, “Your picture is in my mom’s wallet!” Curious and uneasy, I followed her to a charming house. When her mother appeared, I was shocked speechless!

The ocean breeze hit differently here, away from the urgency I was used to back in Silicon Valley.

I’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe without checking my phone every few seconds. My sister had practically pushed me onto the plane, insisting I needed this break from running my tech empire.

She’d insisted the beautiful beaches, great surfing, and lack of crowds made it the perfect place to relax. Looking back now, I wonder if she knew what she was setting in motion.

I’d been in this small coastal town for three days, and while its charm was undeniable — all weathered boardwalks and salt-sprayed storefronts — I felt like a fish out of water.

The locals moved at their peaceful rhythm, while I still vibrated with the energy of quarterly reports and board meetings. Even my temporary rental cottage, with its shabby-chic furniture and views of the sunset, felt like someone else’s life I was trying on for size.

That morning, I decided to burn off some of this restless energy with a run through the quiet streets.

The fog was just lifting, and the early sun painted everything in soft gold. My expensive running shoes felt out of place on these worn sidewalks, just like I did.

A few early risers nodded hello as they walked their dogs or opened their shops. Their easy smiles made me realize how long it had been since I’d exchanged simple pleasantries with strangers.

“Mister, wait! Mister! I know you!”

I froze mid-stride, my heart suddenly racing faster than my run had caused. A little girl, maybe eight years old, was running toward me, her wild curls bouncing with each step.

Before I could process what was happening, her small hand grabbed mine.

“Mister, come with me! To my mom! Come on!”

I gently but firmly pulled my hand away, alarm bells ringing in my head. “Wait, little one. What’s your name? And how do you know me?”

She looked up at me with eyes so earnest it almost hurt. “My name’s Miranda! Your picture is in my mom’s wallet! I see it all the time!”

Her words hit me like a physical blow. My picture? In her mom’s wallet? I took a step back, my mind racing through possibilities.

“Miranda, that’s… that’s impossible. I don’t know anyone here.”

“Yes, you do! You know my mom!”

She reached for my hand again, but I kept it safely at my side. The morning sun caught her features just right, and something about her profile tugged at my memory, but I couldn’t place it.

“Listen, I can’t just follow a child I don’t know. Who’s your mom? And why would she have my picture?”

“Julia! My mom’s name is Julia!” She bounced on her toes, practically vibrating with excitement. “She looks at your picture sometimes when she thinks I’m not watching. She gets all quiet after.”

Julia? I searched my memory, but the name only brought up vague recollections of business meetings and casual introductions. Nothing significant enough to warrant having my photo in anyone’s wallet.

Yet something about this child’s certainty made me hesitate to just walk away.

“Come on, come on!” Miranda tried to grab my hand again, but I shook my head.

“I’ll walk with you, but no hand-holding, okay? I don’t want anyone thinking I’m up to no good.”

She nodded, accepting this compromise, and skipped ahead of me, looking back every few steps to ensure I was following.

We walked down a street lined with mature oak trees, their branches creating dappled shadows on the sidewalk. Finally, we reached a modest house with white shutters and a garden full of bright flowers.

Miranda bounded up the steps and threw open the door, disappearing inside.

“Mom! Mom! He’s here! He’s here! The man from your wallet! He’s here!”

I stood awkwardly in the hallway, wondering if I should leave before this got even more bizarre. But then Miranda reappeared, practically dragging a woman behind her.

The woman froze when she saw me. Her hand flew to her mouth, and tears immediately welled in her eyes.

I didn’t recognize her at first, not until she lowered her hand, and eight years of buried memories came crashing back.

“What? How is this possible?” I whispered. “Meredith? Is that you?”

“Nobody’s called me that in years,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

The world tilted on its axis as I looked between her and Miranda.

The same wild curls, the same determined set to their jaws. My throat went dry as understanding began to dawn.

“You left, remember?” Julia’s words came out sharp and bitter. “That day at the café. You told me you didn’t want to be with someone who only cared about your money.”

The memory hit me like a punch to the gut. My sister had shown me documents — fabricated documents, I now realized — claiming Julia had a history of pursuing wealthy men, and that she had debts she was trying to pay off.

I had believed it all without question, too caught up in my fears of being used to see what was right in front of me.

“You never even let me speak,” Julia continued, tears streaming down her face. “You accused me of chasing after rich men and told me your sister showed you documents detailing my debts. I never had any debts.”

She paused then and looked down at Miranda, her voice softening. “I knew that if I told you about the baby, it would only confirm your sister’s lies about me. And I couldn’t do that because I truly loved you. And… I have my pride.”

Miranda stood between us, her small hand clutching her mother’s, looking confused by the tension she’d created. My daughter!

The thought hit me with such force that I had to lean against the wall for support. All these years of building my company, of chasing success, and I’d had a child I didn’t even know about.

“Why ‘Julia’?” I managed to ask, trying to make sense of anything in this moment. “Why did you go by Meredith back then?”

“Meredith was my middle name. I used it that year because I’d just lost my grandmother. She was also called Meredith. I thought you knew that. But I guess there were a lot of things you didn’t know about me. You were always so busy…”

Everything clicked into place with devastating clarity. My sister’s manipulation, her pushing me to date her best friend after Meredith and I broke up, the convenient “evidence” of Julia’s gold-digging ways.

I’d been such a fool, so wrapped up in my ambitions and fears that I’d missed what really mattered.

“I was wrong,” I said, my voice cracking. “About everything. I believed lies, and I let them ruin us. But now… now I want to make it right.”

Julia’s laugh was hollow. “How do you make up for eight years? For a child growing up without a father? For all the school plays and violin recitals and birthday parties you missed?”

“I can’t,” I admitted, feeling the weight of every missed moment. “But I can be here from this moment forward, if you’ll let me. For Miranda. For both of you.”

Miranda’s eyes lit up at this, but Julia’s expression remained guarded.

“Words are easy,” she said. “Especially for a man who makes his living selling dreams to investors.”

“Then let me prove it with actions,” I insisted. “I’ll move here. Take a step back from the company. Whatever it takes. I’ve spent so long building something I thought was important, but standing here now, I realize I was building the wrong thing all along.”

“Daddy?” Miranda’s voice was small but hopeful, and it shattered what was left of my heart. That one word held so much: all the years I’d missed, all the possibilities ahead.

Julia’s shoulders slumped slightly. “We can try,” she said finally. “But slowly. And at the first sign that you’re going to disappear again…”

“I won’t,” I promised. “I’ve spent eight years chasing success, thinking it would fill this empty space inside me. But standing here, looking at both of you… I finally understand what matters.”

Miranda launched herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist. After a moment’s hesitation, I hugged her back.

Julia’s expression was still cautious, but there was something else there too — a tiny spark of hope that matched the one growing in my own heart.

The morning sun had burned away the last of the fog, and the sea breeze carried the sound of distant waves and seabirds. Through the open door, I could hear wind chimes singing their gentle song.

My sister had been right about one thing — I had needed this break from my normal life. But instead of just finding rest, I’d found something I hadn’t even known I was missing: a chance to reclaim the family I’d almost lost forever.

In recent years, there has been much discussion and debate surrounding the right of mothers to breastfeed their babies in public, especially when it comes to covering up during the act. This topic often sparks controversy as some people believe it’s important for mothers to cover up while breastfeeding, while others support the mother’s right to feed her baby without feeling ashamed or restricted.

In certain cases, mothers have been asked or told to cover up or go to separate areas when breastfeeding, which has led to a widespread debate on the matter. Those who support covering up often argue that it’s a form of respect for others and a way to maintain social norms of “modesty.” However, for many mothers, this request can feel unfair and unjust, as there is no reason why a mother shouldn’t be able to feed her child in public without feeling judged.

This issue is tied to women’s rights and their bodies. Mothers who breastfeed often feel undervalued and unsupported, as society overlooks their needs to feed their babies. Many women argue that being asked to cover their bodies while breastfeeding can be a sign of shame and withdrawal, making this natural and essential act for child development feel like something that should be hidden

In many countries and states, the laws protect a mother’s right to breastfeed in public. In fact, many U.S. states and other countries have specific laws that protect the right of a mother to breastfeed in public without being asked to cover up or move to a private space. This is an important step toward recognizing the naturalness of breastfeeding and respecting the rights of mothers.

However, the issue of covering up while breastfeeding remains a topic of debate. Some individuals believe it is important to maintain some discretion, often suggesting the use of a cover to shield the breast. This argument is often based on concerns about disturbing the comfort of others, but this perspective is frequently dismissed by those who believe it’s a violation of a mother’s personal freedom.

Another perspective on this matter involves the health of the child and the bond between mother and baby. Breastfeeding is an important way to foster emotional and physical connection between mother and child. Many health experts emphasize the importance of breastfeeding for child development, and being asked to cover up can cause stress and discomfort, making the act of feeding more complicated and difficult.

In some cultures, the discussion surrounding breastfeeding is particularly sensitive. In some societies, breastfeeding in public may be seen as “improper” or “shameful,” while in others, it’s regarded as a completely natural and acceptable act. This difference in views also impacts how people perceive this act and whether they feel comfortable or uncomfortable in the presence of a woman breastfeeding her baby in public.

Furthermore, for many mothers, this debate is more than just about covering the body – it’s about freedom and respect for an act that has been part of human life for thousands of years. Many women believe that breastfeeding is a natural right and should be an act that is not subjected to social judgment. They feel empowered to follow the same standards as other women when feeding and caring for their children.

Ultimately, it’s clear that this issue has many layers and requires an open and sensitive dialogue. Society should respect mothers’ rights to feed their children and support them in the best possible way. At the same time, it’s important that we maintain a balanced approach to individual rights and create a harmonious and respectful society for everyone.

If more people begin to accept that breastfeeding is a natural and necessary act, society will become more supportive, and the well-being of mothers and babies will improve. This is an important step toward a world where mothers can feed their babies anywhere and anytime without feeling the need to cover up or feel ashamed.

For our sake, He bore the weight of sin (cf. 2 Cor 5:21), taking upon Himself the burden of humanity’s transgressions. Pope Benedict XVI described this profound mystery as a “turning of God against Himself” (Deus Caritas Est, 12)—the ultimate expression of divine love. It is a love that reaches even those who stand in opposition to Him (cf. Mt 5:43-48).

The dialogue God seeks with each soul through the paschal mystery is far from idle talk. It stands in stark contrast to the superficial exchanges of the Athenians, who “spent their time in nothing except telling or hearing something new” (Acts 17:21). Such shallow curiosity—then as now—reflects the distractions of worldliness, including the way media is often used to entertain rather than to enlighten.

At the center of our lives, the paschal mystery invites us to recognize and participate in the suffering of the crucified Christ. Today, this suffering is visible in the innocent victims of war, attacks on human dignity—from the unborn to the elderly—and in various forms of violence. We witness it as well in environmental destruction, unjust distribution of the earth’s resources, human trafficking in its many cruel forms, and the relentless pursuit of profit, which has become a modern form of idolatry.

This is why acts of generosity are more essential than ever. Almsgiving is not just an obligation—it is a profound act of love that draws us closer to our shared humanity. In contrast, hoarding locks us within ourselves. We are also called to examine the deeper structures of our economic systems. With this in mind, I have convened a gathering in Assisi from March 26 to 28, bringing together young economists, entrepreneurs, and innovators to envision a more just and inclusive economy. As the Church has long taught, political engagement is a true expression of charity (cf. Pius XI, Address to the Italian Federation).

I entrust our Lenten journey to the intercession of Mary Most Holy, praying that our hearts may be opened to true reconciliation. May this sacred season lead us to a deeper contemplation of the paschal mystery and into authentic dialogue with the Lord. In doing so, we will become what Christ calls His disciples to be: the salt of the earth and the light of the world (cf. Mt 5:13-14).

I bought shawarma for a homeless man and his dog on a cold winter night. It appeared to be a small act of kindness at the moment. However, when he handed me a note hinting at a past I had completely forgotten, I realized this was no ordinary encounter.

I worked at a sporting goods shop inside a mall downtown. After 17 years of marriage, two teenagers, and many late shifts, I believed nothing could catch me off guard. But life is unpredictable like that.

That day had been especially difficult because holiday shoppers demanded refunds for worn items. Additionally, a cash register kept jamming, and my daughter Amy had texted me about failing another math test. We definitely needed to think about hiring a tutor.

All those things were on my mind when my shift ended. Worse, the temperature had dropped to a freezing level outside. The outside thermometer read 26.6°F.

The wind howled between buildings, blowing papers across the sidewalk as I stepped outside. I pulled my coat tighter, dreaming of the warm bath waiting for me at home.

On my way to the bus stop, I noticed the shawarma stall that had been there almost as long as I’d worked at the store. It was between a closed flower shop and a dimly lit convenience store.

Steam rose from the grill in the cool air. The smell of roasted meat and spices almost made me stop for one, but I didn’t feel like dealing with the vendor’s grumpiness today. He was a stocky man with lines permanently set in his face.

The food was quick and tasty, but I didn’t want to deal with his attitude.

Nevertheless, I paused when I saw a homeless man and his dog approaching the stand. The man, probably around 55, looked cold and clearly hungry as he stared at the rotating meat.

He wore a thin coat, and his dog looked underfed without fur. My heart ached for both of them.

“Are you going to order something or just stand there?” the vendor’s sharp voice startled me.

The homeless man gathered his courage. “Sir, please. Just some hot water?” he asked, shoulders hunched.

Sadly, I knew what the vendor would say before he even spoke. “Get out of here! This isn’t charity!” he barked.

As the dog moved closer to its owner, I saw the man slump a little. That’s when my grandmother’s face flashed into my mind.

She had told me stories about her tough childhood and how a single act of kindness had saved her family from starvation. I’d never forgotten that lesson. Though I couldn’t always help, her words came to mind:

“Kindness costs nothing but can change everything.”

I spoke before I realized it. “Two coffees and two shawarmas.”

The vendor nodded and prepared my order quickly. “Eighteen dollars,” he said coldly as he placed everything on the counter.

I handed over the cash, grabbed the bag and tray, and hurried to catch up with the homeless man.

When I handed him the food, his hands trembled.

“God bless you, child,” he whispered.

I nodded awkwardly, eager to return home and escape the cold. But his raspy voice made me pause.

“Wait.” I turned to see him take out a pen and paper, scribble something quickly, then hold it out to me. “Read this at home,” he said with a strange smile.

I nodded, slipping the note into my coat pocket. My thoughts were already drifting to waiting for the bus and what I’d make for dinner.

That night at home, life continued as usual. My son Derek needed help with his science project. Amy complained about her math teacher. My husband Tom talked about a new case at his law firm.

The note stayed forgotten in my coat pocket until the next evening when I was gathering laundry.

I unfolded the crumpled paper and read the message:

“Thank you for saving my life. You don’t realize it, but you have already saved it once before.”

Below was a date from three years earlier and the name “Lucy’s Café.”

The clothes I was holding almost slipped from my hands. Lucy’s had been my usual lunch spot before it closed.

And suddenly, I remembered that day clearly. It was during a storm when many people sought shelter inside.

A man had stumbled in. His soaked clothes and the desperate look in his eyes told me he needed more than just food.

No one paid him any attention except for me. The waitress almost turned him away, but just like that evening, I remembered my grandmother’s voice.

So, I bought him coffee and a croissant.

I told him to have a good day and shared my brightest smile. It seemed simple… or so I thought.

But it was the same man, and my heart broke again. His life hadn’t improved, yet he remembered my kindness. Was giving food once every few years enough?

That night, I couldn’t sleep with the thoughts racing through my mind.

The next day, I left work early.

Luckily, he was nearby, huddled in a corner hugging his dog. The dog wagged his tail when he saw me.

“Hello,” I said. “I read your note. I can’t believe you remember that day.”

The man looked up, surprised, and gave a fragile smile. “You’re a bright spot in a tough world, child. You’ve saved me twice now.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t. I just gave some food and showed basic kindness. I want to do more. Can I help you for real?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because everyone deserves a second chance, a true one.”

He nodded, and I told him to come with me.

There was a lot to do to help him rebuild his life. With my husband being a lawyer, I knew we could assist. I wanted to get to know him better, so I took him to a café, introduced myself properly, and learned his name was Victor.

Over two coffees, some berry pie, and a treat for his dog Lucky, Victor shared his story. He’d been a truck driver with a wife and daughter.

One rainy night, a car swerved into his lane. The crash shattered his leg and caused heavy medical bills. When he couldn’t find another job, his wife took their daughter and left.

Despite his injuries, his employer refused to pay disability benefits. Eventually, depression took over.

He admitted, “That day at Lucy’s, I was planning to end it all. But you smiled and treated me like a human. That gave me another day. Then another. Then more. I found Lucky abandoned, and I kept going. I wasn’t so alone anymore.”

Tears rolled down his face. “Now you’re here again,” he finished. “Just when this bad weather made me think about giving Lucky up.”

I shook my head, tears coming into my eyes. “No. You don’t have to do that. I’m here. Lucky isn’t leaving without you.”

That night, I contacted a local shelter and booked a place for Victor and his dog.

I also started a GoFundMe for clothes and essentials. My children helped with social media posts. One of Tom’s colleagues specializing in disability law agreed to help Victor for free.

We also helped him replace stolen documents, which had been taken while he slept on a bench.

It took a month to find him a proper apartment near the shelter. With a new address, he got a job in a warehouse. His supervisor allowed Lucky inside, and the dog quickly became part of the morning crew.

The following year, on my birthday, I was surprised when Victor showed up at my door holding a chocolate cake from a local bakery.

He looked clean-shaven, dressed nicely, and his smile radiated confidence. Lucky wore a new red collar.

His eyes shone with gratitude. “You’ve saved my life three times now—at the café, at the shawarma stand, and through everything you’ve done since. I wanted to bring you this cake, but it’s really the least I could do for the hero born on this day.”

I invited him inside, fighting tears, and we shared cake with my family. I thought about how close I had come to walking past him that cold night, too caught up in my own worries to notice someone else’s pain.

How many others out there are waiting for someone to see them?

That’s why I often tell Amy and Derek my grandmother’s words: always be kind and take every chance to make the world a little less harsh.

You never know if your small act could be a lifeline for someone in need.

So, picture this: it’s my husband’s 27th birthday, and we’re having this nice, chill party with friends and family. Everything’s going great until… his mom drops the bombshell of all bombshells. She announces she’s pregnant—with twins! Thanks to IVF. Everyone’s either cheering or whispering behind their glasses, but my husband? He’s straight-up furious.

I gently squeezed his hand, trying to keep the peace. “We can deal with this later, babe. Everyone’s watching,” I whispered, praying he wouldn’t lose it in front of everyone.

I knew why this news hit him so hard. We were in the middle of planning for our second baby, and now, while we were dreaming of expanding our little family, my husband was going to be a… brother. Again. At 27.

“Jessica, you don’t get it,” he muttered, completely floored. “How could Mom do this? She’s fifty, almost fifty-one… how could she even want to go through with this?” And there I was, caught in this bizarre moment between my stunned husband and his glowing mother.

But here’s where things got really weird. A few days after she gave birth to two healthy babies, she came to me—and asked if I would… adopt them.

At first, I genuinely thought she was joking. I actually let out this nervous little laugh—until I saw her face. Completely serious. No smile, no flinch.

“I mean it,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about it since I found out I was pregnant. I love them. But I’m tired. I thought I could handle this, but I can’t raise babies again.”

I didn’t even know what to say. I just sat there on the couch, holding my own toddler in my lap, thinking… how is this my life right now?

She looked so worn down, too. The sparkle she had at the party? Totally gone. Sleepless nights and stress had aged her overnight. I could see it in her eyes—this wasn’t about flaking out or being dramatic. She genuinely looked overwhelmed.

But still—adopt them?

“You want me and Ezra to raise your babies?” I asked slowly.

She nodded. “They’re already your siblings. Why not let them grow up as your children? You two have a stable home, you’re already in the rhythm of parenting, and they’d never be far from me. It would make everything… easier.”

I didn’t respond right away. How could I?

I waited until that night to bring it up with Ezra. I braced myself, fully expecting him to flip out—but to my surprise, he just sat there, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I knew it,” he said. “I knew she wasn’t thinking long-term.”

We sat in silence for a while, both of us processing in our own way. Then he looked up at me.

“Would you do it? If we agreed?”

I was honest. “I don’t know. It’s not like babysitting. This is raising them. Being their mom. Forever. That’s not a small thing.”

Ezra nodded. “But it would keep them in the family. We could make sure they’re safe. Loved. But man… what a freaking mess.”

Over the next week, we met with lawyers, a counselor, and even had a family sit-down. Emotions were high. His mom sobbed through half of it, apologizing, saying she underestimated how hard it would be. Turned out, her partner—yeah, the IVF donor? He bailed. Didn’t want any real responsibility. So she was basically doing it all alone.

And that’s when it hit me: this wasn’t just about us. This was about those two innocent babies.

So, we said yes.

It wasn’t instant. There were legal hurdles, paperwork, home checks. But eventually, it was done. And just like that, I became a mom of four—two of them technically my husband’s half-siblings.

The first few months were hard. We had to deal with whispers from extended family, comments like “Isn’t that confusing for the kids?” or “How do you even explain that dynamic?” But honestly? We just focused on love. We didn’t get caught up in the titles. We just showed up—every single day.

And something amazing happened.

Ezra softened. He went from resenting his mom to actually helping her more—checking in, forgiving her, slowly rebuilding a relationship. Not because he forgot everything, but because he saw her humanity.

And me? I fell in love with those babies like they were mine from the start.

You know, life doesn’t always go in the order you plan. Sometimes it takes a complete left turn into territory you never asked for. But sometimes, that detour leads you exactly where you’re meant to be.

I never thought I’d be adopting my mother-in-law’s children.

But now, when I watch our four kids—laughing together, fighting over crayons, falling asleep on the same couch—I know one thing for sure:

Family isn’t about how it starts. It’s about how you show up for each other.

If this story touched your heart, share it with someone who believes in the beauty of chosen family. And don’t forget to like—because sometimes, the biggest blessings come from the most unexpected places.

Matvey slammed on the brakes sharply, as if something had jolted him awake. How many times had he planned to come here — neither during his mother’s lifetime nor after her passing had he found the time. Always busy, important, he now found himself repulsive. It even became unpleasant to remember what he had been like.

It turned out he needed a powerful shock — one that would painfully shake his soul, make him realize: this whole world he had built around himself was just a mirage. Not a single word, not a single act there carried any weight, meant nothing.

The irony of fate: he was even grateful to Natasha — his ex-wife — for destroying that glass castle. In an instant, everything crumbled to dust. The perfect family everyone thought was real turned out to be fake. What feelings, what promises — in reality, emptiness.

His wife and his best friend… And the circle of “friends” who knew everything but chose to stay silent. It was not just a collapse — it was the death of an entire world. It turned out that everyone close to him was a traitor.

Right after the divorce, Matvey got into his car and headed to his hometown. Eight years had passed since he buried his mother. In all that time, he had never visited her grave. Hadn’t even tried. Only now did he understand: his mother was the only person who would never have betrayed him.

He married late — he was thirty-three, Natasha twenty-five. He was proud of her: beautiful, statuesque, always “on the go.” Later she shouted in his face that she hated every minute of their life together, that going to bed with him was torture. Back then, he didn’t realize how much he had missed, how long he had lived in an illusion.

Her twisted face, full of malice, looked more like a mask. But not long before, she had cried so sincerely, begged forgiveness, said she was always alone. But when he declared it was over, Natasha dropped her last masks and showed her true face.

Matvey got out of the car, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers, and slowly walked along the cemetery path. He was sure everything here had long since overgrown. After all, he hadn’t even come when the monument was installed — everything was arranged online, without any extra effort. Now he understood: you could live your whole life without noticing how it slipped by.

But to his surprise, the grave was neat, clean, without a hint of neglect. It seemed someone regularly cared for it. Perhaps his mother’s friends or those who remembered her. And the son?.. The son never found the time.

Opening the creaky gate, Matvey whispered:

— Hello, Mommy…

His throat tightened, his eyes stung, his voice betrayed a tremble.

Tears ran down his cheeks — hot, frequent. He, a successful businessman, a man with cold calculation in his eyes, a man who had long forgotten what sadness was, sobbed like a child. And he didn’t want to stop. Those tears seemed to wash away all the pain, all the resentment, everything connected with Natasha and other disappointments. As if his mother sat beside him, stroking his head and quietly coaxing:

— Come on, son, everything will be alright, you’ll see.

He sat silently for a long time, but inside words to his mother poured out. He remembered how he fell, how he cried, and she rubbed his knees with iodine and whispered:

— It’s okay, son, it’ll heal before the wedding.

And indeed, it healed. Then she added:

— You get used to everything, you can get used to anything. Only betrayal — you cannot.

Now he understood every word. Before, they seemed simple, ordinary, but now they sounded like the wisdom of a great person. She raised him alone, without a father, but did not spoil him — taught him to be strong.

Of course, he paid the neighbor to watch the house. But how long can it stay empty?

Smiling, he recalled how he met the neighbor — with her daughter Nina. Back then he was in a bad place, struggling, and Nina was there — caring, attentive. They talked in the evening, and everything somehow happened by itself. He left quietly, leaving a note where to put the key.

From the outside, he probably looked like he had used her. But he promised nothing, and she agreed. She had just divorced a tyrant husband and told him her story. Both had it hard — and they found each other.

— Mister, — a child’s voice sounded, — may I ask you for help?

He turned sharply. In front of him stood a girl about seven or eight years old, holding a bucket.

— I need to bring water to water the flowers. Mom and I planted them recently, but today she got sick. It’s so hot, they’ll die. There’s water nearby, but I can’t carry a full bucket. I don’t want mom to know I came alone. If I carry a little at a time, she won’t guess.

Matvey smiled sincerely.

— Of course, I’ll help. Show me where to go.

The girl ran ahead, chattering nonstop. After a couple of minutes, Matvey already knew that mom didn’t listen to advice, that you shouldn’t drink cold water in the heat, that now she had a fever. That they came to grandmother, who died a year ago. That mom would have gotten a scolding from grandmother. And that the girl studied excellently at school and would definitely graduate with a medal.

With every word, Matvey felt lighter. Children are a special light. He thought how good it would be to have an ordinary family, where you are loved and awaited.

But Natasha was like a doll — beautiful but soulless. She hated children. She herself said:

— You have to be a fool to lose your beauty for a child.

Five years of marriage — and not one good memory. Only emptiness.

He put down the bucket, and the girl, named Masha, carefully began watering the flowers. Matvey looked at the monument and froze — on the photo looking at him was the neighbor, Nina’s mother. He shifted his gaze to Masha.

— Was Zoya Petrovna your grandmother?

— Yes. Did you know her? Although why am I asking — you were at Grandma Anya’s. Mom and I always clean there and bring flowers.

— You and your mom?

— Of course! Mom doesn’t let me go to the cemetery alone — it’s dangerous.

Masha looked around, satisfied, put the bucket away.

— I’ll run off, or mom will start worrying.

— Wait, — Matvey called, — I’ll give you a ride.

— No, — she answered, — mom is sick.

Masha ran off, and Matvey returned to his mother’s grave. Something was strange. He thought Nina temporarily lived with his mother, but it turns out — she’s here, and she has a daughter. At that time he didn’t even know if she had a child.

He didn’t know how old Masha was. Maybe Nina married, had a child, then returned to her mother, staying alone. He was in such a state that he didn’t ask questions.

After sitting a little, Matvey got up. Most likely now Nina was taking care of his mother’s house. He didn’t care who he paid, as long as the house didn’t stay empty.

Arriving at his mother’s house, Matvey felt his heart tighten. The house was the same. It seemed like any moment his mother would come out on the porch, wipe her tears with an apron, and hug him tightly. He didn’t get out of the car for a long time, but his mother did not come out.

Finally, he went into the yard. Clean, tidy, with flowers. Good job, Nina. He would have to thank her. The house also shone — as if the owners had just stepped out for a while. Matvey sat at the table but couldn’t stay still — he needed to settle things with the neighbor.

The door opened. Masha appeared.

— Oh, it’s you! Just don’t tell mom we met at the cemetery, okay?

Matvey showed that he would keep silent forever, and Masha laughed.

— Come in, just don’t go near mom — she has a fever.

He entered — and saw Nina. She lay on the couch, and fear flashed in her eyes when she saw him.

— You? — she exclaimed in surprise.

Matvey smiled.

— Hi, — he said, glancing around. There were no men’s things in the house, and it seemed there hadn’t been for a long time.

— Matvey… — Nina tried to sit up. — I didn’t tell you about your mother’s death. There’s almost no work in the city; I took care of the house myself.

— My condolences, Nina, — he said softly. — And about the house — thank you so much. When you come in, it’s like mom just stepped out for a moment.

— Are you staying long?

— For a couple of days.

— Will you sell the house?

He shrugged.

— Haven’t thought about it yet.

— Here, — he put a thick stack of money on the table, — for good care. Like a thank-you.

— Thank you, Uncle Matvey! — a small voice said suddenly. It was Masha, who appeared nearby. — Mom has wanted a new dress for a long time, and I dreamed of a bicycle!

Matvey laughed.

— Smart girl, Masha. Just like me in my youth — money never flew past me.

In the evening, Matvey realized he had fallen ill — probably caught it from Nina. His temperature rose, his head was splitting. He found the thermometer in the old place where his mother always kept it, measured his temperature, and realized: urgent action was needed. What exactly — he had no idea. He forgot everything he once knew. So he texted the neighbor — but he already knew Nina would answer.

“What do you take for a high fever?”

In ten minutes they were both at his place.

— God, — Nina exclaimed, seeing his condition. — Why did you even come into the house? I infected you…

— You’re sick, why should I run to you?

— Come on, I’m already better, — she muttered, coming closer.

Nina handed him pills, and Masha brought hot tea.

— She’ll burn herself, — Matvey said worriedly.

— Who, Mashka? — Nina laughed. — You won’t get the chance. She’s handy with everything.

Matvey smiled, looking at the girl, and suddenly something clicked in his head. “Just like me.”

And then — as if struck by electricity: he sat up sharply.

— Nin… — his voice changed completely.

She looked at him anxiously.

— What happened?

— When… — he began slowly, — when was Masha born?

Nina suddenly went pale, heavily sank into a chair.

— Why do you want to know? — she whispered.

Then she decisively turned to her daughter:

— Mashenka, run to the store, buy lemons and something to drink, okay?

— Okay, mom! — Masha immediately grabbed the money and ran out.

Nina gathered her thoughts, her voice became firm and even:

— Matvey, let’s agree right away: Masha has nothing to do with you. Not the slightest. We don’t need anything, we have everything. Just forget it.

— What are you saying, Nin? — Matvey stood up sharply. — What do you mean ‘forget’? Is it true? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call?

— Matvey, — Nina looked him straight in the eyes, — I decided to give birth on my own. You didn’t participate in this. And I wasn’t going to tell you — didn’t think you would show up here. And especially didn’t think you’d be interested.

Matvey stood like a statue. His world had just turned upside down. All these years he lived some fake, showy life, and the real, true happiness — here it was, in front of him, in the face of this girl and the woman who raised him.

— Nin… — his voice softened. — Please don’t think like that. I don’t even know what to do yet.

That night he dreamed of his mother. She smiled and said she always dreamed of a granddaughter like Masha.

Three days later Matvey was getting ready to leave. Nina sat at the table, listening silently.

— So, — he said. — I’ll sort out some things in the city and come back. In a week or a little later. But I’ll come back. To take you back. — He looked into her eyes. — I promise if you don’t want to, I won’t tell Masha anything. But I’ll help you with everything. Tell me, is there even a chance? A chance for a family? For happiness?

She hesitated, shrugged, and wiped a tear.

— I don’t know, Matvey…

He returned three weeks later — a long time. He stopped the car not at his own house, but at Nina’s house. With big bags and gifts for Masha and Nina, he entered the house.

— Hello, — he said, feeling nervous.

Nina sat sewing, looked up, and weakly smiled.

— You came.

— I told you I’d come back, — Matvey smiled widely. — Where is Masha?

Masha came out of the room, still sleepy.

— Hello, Uncle Matvey, — she said.

Nina stood.

— Matvey, — her voice was firm and decisive, — I thought it over.

She took Masha by the hand.

— Mashenka, — she said, — I want you to meet your father.

Matvey dropped the bags on the floor. His hands were trembling.

— Thank you, — he whispered.

A week later, they left together. Both houses were put up for sale — they decided to start life anew. Masha still could not fully realize that she now called Matvey “dad,” often reverting to “Uncle Matvey.” He just laughed, hugged them both, and believed with all his soul — now everything would be exactly as it should have been.

“Last October I was sitting at work when my cell phone buzzed. I didn’t realize when I first picked up that this call would completely change my day, my week and my month. ‘Hi Bart, this is Patricia from the Fertility Clinic. I’m so sorry…’ Those were all the words I needed to hear to know that our surrogate had miscarried and we’d lost the baby. We were only on week 6 of our sibling journey and passed a few positive blood tests, still pre-heartbeat, but it didn’t make the news any easier to swallow. It was still a life, a beautiful sibling for our daughter Sloane to play with, to grow up with.

I immediately started crying uncontrollably at the office and rushed to the bathroom to contain myself. After months and months of physical exams, psychological screens, blood tests, genetic testing, embryo testing, and hormones, we’d gotten the worst news possible. I looked in the mirror at my glassy eyes and felt shattered. I felt devastated for our surrogate, for our family, and for the life that would never be.

Our journey to start our family began in the winter of 2011, almost a decade ago, when I met my future husband, Dave. We were at an ugly sweater Christmas party thrown by one of our mutual friends, and I tossed out my drink so I could cozy up next to him at the bar. The rest, as they say, is history. We had so many shared interests; Japanese culture, going for long runs, seeing obscure indie band concerts at the Williamsburg Music Hall, and having kids was no different. On our third date we quickly established a mutual desire to have a family and for us, the question was just how many. A few years later I proposed on top of a mountaintop during an epic trip to Norway, and a year later we got married at a barn in upstate New York with bistro lights and wild flowers arranged in mason jars (I know you can visualize it).

Courtesy of Bart Rosenthal

Shortly after becoming newlyweds we reached our first juncture in the road: adoption or surrogacy? Neither of us were sure. So, being Type A’s, we scoured our networks for friends of friends that had done either. We ended up talking to about a dozen families, half of which had pursued adoption and the other half surrogacy. We grilled them on the pros and cons, why they had chosen one path or the other. All of that research distilled down to one fundamental truth- there really is no right or wrong answer regarding how to start a family. You just have to do what feels right for you and your partner. And for us, it was surrogacy.

Courtesy of Bart Rosenthal

We found an agency, created some embryos with an anonymous egg donor (which involved going to our agency’s online database and selecting a woman that would comprise 50% of our child’s genetic material…no biggie!), and 10 months later we were matched with our surrogate, a truly spectacular woman living outside of Denver with her wonderful husband and two great kids of her own. Our first video chat call was nerve-wracking, we were all so nervous meeting each other that the first few minutes were filled with awkward pauses and nervous laughter. But we must have made a good impression because after the call, everyone decided the match felt right, and we were on our way. The embryo transfer was a few months later and we flew to the Californian fertility clinic to be with her in person. We spent the rest of the weekend with her while she was on bed-rest, which was an awesome opportunity to really get to know her better and to share our hopes and dreams for our surrogacy journey together.

We’ll never forget the day we found out our surrogate was pregnant. It was Thanksgiving, and we were home in New Jersey at my parents’ house. Our surrogate texted a weird picture of a coffee pitcher in the oven, which I showed to Dave. ‘Why do you think she sent this?’ I asked him. Dave, who is a puzzle master, quickly got it. ‘Oh my God, oh my God. It’s a Bunn in the oven! A bun in the oven!’ (Bunn is a brand of coffee maker if you didn’t know!) We called our surrogate right away and screamed with excitement at the news. The timing was perfect, and it made the rest of the weekend (a holiday I’ve always loved, surrounded by my equally excited family) that much more special.

The first few blood tests came back positive. And then there was the heartbeat ultrasound. We heard it! I remember just losing it out of sheer joy. The next 9 months passed by in a surreal blur, with us in NYC and our surrogate across the country, texting or calling daily to hear how she was doing and how she was feeling. We visited her several times over the course of the pregnancy and mainly just tried to be supportive, knowing she was doing this incredible thing for us. Finally, it was two weeks away from our daughter’s due date and we flew to Colorado for the delivery. Our surrogate had preeclampsia and ended up being induced early. My parents flew in to be with us. Being in the delivery room when Sloane was born was the most amazing, mind-blowing experience I’ve ever been a part of. I remember Dave, who I call a robot because he’s usually very stoic and reserved, just sobbing his eyes out throughout the delivery.

Courtesy of Bart Rosenthal

Being a father to Sloane has been everything I’d hoped it would be. Sloane turned two this past July and every week it seems like there’s another new heart-melting thing that she can do. This past week she started to say her full name! She is just the sweetest, most precious girl and it’s hard to remember life without her. Of course her newly-minted toddler temper tantrums are never fun, but there is a richness to life that I’ve never experienced before. When I hold her on my shoulders and walk around the neighborhood, going for a babycinno (steamed milk with a little bit of cocoa powder) every weekend morning, it’s incredible to see life through her eyes. One of my favorite things about going on vacation nowadays is getting to spend uninterrupted quality time with her at different stages of development; it’s an invaluable bonding experience that I wouldn’t trade for the world.

Courtesy of Bart Rosenthal

Dave and I are lucky to come from fully supportive families who adore Sloane just as much as we do. Beyond family, we do get a lot of reactions about being gay dads, but have yet to have any negative ones. Mostly it’s a lot of smiles and an occasional ‘you guys are doing great!’ One particular moment stands out. We were flying back with Sloane to New York City 5 days after she was born in Colorado. As we boarded early, we passed by a number of men wearing hunting gear that I thought may have had a problem with our family. But as we sat in our seats, wiping down all the surfaces and trying not to freak out as we were about to takeoff with a newborn, two of the guys in hunting gear came up to us and said, ‘Congratulations, you three make such a beautiful family.’ It was an important reminder for me to always check my own bias at the door.

Courtesy of Bart Rosenthal

Back to that call last October. After leaving the bathroom I quickly walked back to my desk to grab my belongings and canceled my meetings for the rest of the day. My husband Dave was away on work travel in Dublin, but I knew I had to spend the rest of the day with Sloane – she would make things better. I jumped on the subway and called Dave on the walk home.

His voice was broken: ‘I’m so sorry, Bart. I wish I was there with you. It’s so hard to process this halfway across the world.’ I promised to FaceTime him later with Sloane.

When I got home I saw my beautiful girl smiling at me from across the room, oblivious to our news. I ran to her, got on my knees, and gave her the longest hug as tears rolled down my cheeks. I took her to the park where we spent the rest of the afternoon together, helping her down the slide and rolling around in the sandbox and pushing her on the swings (FaceTiming Dave, as promised, so he could join in virtually). And as she swung back and forth, the repetition of the swing turned meditative, and I entered a place of calm. Yes, we’d lost a baby, but we would try again — and no matter what happened, I was so incredibly lucky to live in this day and age when I could have my family, my husband Dave, a beautiful relationship with our surrogate, and my lovely daughter Sloane, who will always mean the world to me.”

Courtesy of Bart Rosenthal

I was completely stunned the moment I stepped through the door, the echo of my luggage wheels bouncing off the corridor walls.

It looked like a tornado had swept through our living room.

Dishes were piled sky-high in the sink, toys were strewn everywhere, and—wait—was that a banana blackened with age on the couch?

My heart sank. After an exhausting week filled with meetings across the state, this was the absolute last thing I wanted to face.

All I’d dreamed of was coming home to my bed, my husband, and my children. To walk into a clean, welcoming space.

Before I left, I had given Brandon, my husband, crystal-clear instructions.

I had gone out of my way to prepare lunches and dinners, even making sure the meals for the entire week were prepped. I genuinely wanted to make his week as smooth and effortless as possible.

I’d laid out the kids’ clothes by day so that all Brandon had to do was pour cereal and get them dressed in the mornings. Even the laundry had been done before I left.

Everything had been set perfectly in place for him to step in and manage with ease.

But coming back home, all I felt was a wave of bitter disappointment. I had yearned for the familiarity and peace of home, and instead, I was greeted with chaos.

Things only worsened when I reached the kitchen. The fridge was practically barren except for a few sauces and a six-pack of beer, and the sink was overflowing with stained mugs.

How had things deteriorated this quickly?

Brandon had been outside with the kids, and I heard the back door creak open as he entered.

“Hey, honey!” he called, rushing over to hug me. “I’m so glad you’re home! I’m starving!”

His words stung like a slap. I didn’t respond.

He kept going, oblivious. “Jo, you didn’t leave enough food for the whole week. I had to give the kids pizza two nights in a row. We’re out of milk. And I had to stop worrying about the house just to get through work.”

That was it for me.

Months—no, years—of exhaustion, of feeling like everything rested on my shoulders, suddenly surged to the surface.

“Not enough food?” I asked, my voice eerily calm despite the fury building inside me. I was ready to scream.

I didn’t wait for a reply. I didn’t even go outside to see my children, Max and Ava. I picked up my suitcase—still packed—and turned around.

“I’m leaving, Brandon. I’m not coming back until this house looks exactly how I left it. That means a clean home, a stocked fridge, laundry done, and everything in its place. Got it?”

As I walked out the front door, I caught a glimpse of his stunned face—first confused, then clearly worried—but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t try to stop me. He didn’t call after me or offer to take care of things while I relaxed.

He just let me walk away.

I drove straight to my parents’ house. Though I’d long since outgrown it, it still felt like a place of safety.

My mom answered the door before I even knocked. Her face shifted from surprise to concern the instant she saw my tear-streaked cheeks and the suitcase behind me.

“Oh, Jo… what happened?” she asked, pulling me into a warm, tight hug.

The aroma of pot roast greeted me as I stepped inside. This was the home I wanted to return to. The one where I could breathe.

Not the disorder my husband had allowed to take over our house. I walked into the living room I knew by heart, and my father appeared in the hallway.

He took my bag and wrapped me in a hug. “You look like you’ve been through a storm,” he murmured.

I collapsed onto the couch with a heavy sigh. Being back in a space where everything had its place only made the contrast worse.

“I might as well have been,” I said, trying to smile.

“Talk to us,” my mom urged gently.

My hands trembled as I recounted how I had prepared everything before my trip. “I left Brandon with clean clothes, meals, the kids’ schedules—all of it. He just had to step in for a few days.”

My mom sat down beside me, her hand resting over mine. My dad leaned forward, his cheerful expression replaced by a deep frown.

“And today when I came home,” I continued, my voice thick with frustration, “it was as if none of it mattered. The house was in shambles. And Brandon had the nerve to complain there wasn’t enough food.”

“That’s outrageous,” my dad snapped. His tone was sharper than I expected. “After all the work you do?”

That night, sitting at my old desk, I did something I didn’t plan to. I wrote down every responsibility I handled at home and gave it a rough monetary value.

It felt petty—but necessary.

I felt utterly drained. And worse, guilty. I had walked out without even seeing my children first.

I knew I had to go back the next day.

“You need to go back, sweetheart,” my mom said as she cooked breakfast. “The kids need you.”

I felt a flicker of hope as I pulled into the driveway. Brandon was in the doorway, looking uncertain. The vacuum sat in the middle of the living room. It looked like he had at least started trying.

But what moved me was the sound of laughter echoing from the backyard.

I rounded the corner and saw them—my babies, chasing a soccer ball, carefree and giggling.

In that moment, the stress of yesterday melted away. Max spotted me first and came running, his little legs moving as fast as they could.

“Mommy!” he shouted, throwing himself into my arms. Ava wasn’t far behind.

“Mom! You’re back!” she squealed.

I hugged them tight, soaking in their warmth and innocence.

“I missed you so much,” I whispered, a knot of guilt and love tightening in my chest.

Brandon stood at a distance, watching as we played. Eventually, I noticed him through the kitchen window, scrubbing dishes at the sink.

I knew I should’ve gone to him. Said something. But at that moment, I just wanted to soak up every second with my kids.

“Can we have ice cream, Mom?” Ava asked a few minutes later.

“Yes,” I smiled. “But only if we stop at the store afterward—we’ve got shopping to do.”

I told the kids to get cleaned up and walked over to Brandon.

I handed him an envelope—the same one I’d filled the night before, listing all the unpaid labor I contributed to our household. I slid it across the counter.

He opened it and frowned. “What’s this?”

“It’s a bill,” I said. “For everything I do that goes unnoticed.”

He read silently, his eyes widening as he scanned the figures.

“This is… a lot,” he finally admitted.

“It is,” I said firmly. “And it’s time we re-evaluate how we manage things in this house. We need to respect each other.”

He nodded slowly.

“We need groceries,” I added, peeking into the still-empty fridge. “So I’m taking the kids.”

He looked at me hopefully. “Want me to come?”

“No,” I said gently but firmly. “You’ve got laundry to catch up on. I’m sure there’s plenty.”

Once the kids were ready, I buckled them in and drove off. There was a sense of relief in knowing I had voiced everything I’d been holding back. I knew Brandon was hurting—but this wasn’t just about his feelings anymore.

At the store, the kids munched on ice cream cones while I filled the cart. I almost felt… back to normal.

When we returned home, arms full of bags, I was met with the smell of dinner.

“You cooked,” I said to Brandon, surprised.

He was stirring a pot of pasta. “Jo,” he said, “I want to do better. I don’t want to just be the guy who keeps the kids alive when you’re gone. I want to be involved like you are. They didn’t even ask me to come today.”

I could tell something had shifted in him.

As he dished out plates, he added, “I want to make things easier for you. I mean it.”

The house was spotless. Everything in its place.

And for the first time in a long while, we all sat down to eat—together.

I had hope that things might finally start changing.