I never thought a $5 pair of baby shoes would change anything. I was just a tired mom with a tired wallet, trying to keep the wheels from falling off. Nights I closed the diner, mornings I got my three-year-old, Stan, into shoes that pinched his toes, afternoons I checked on my mother, who hasn’t left her bed since her second stroke. It felt like living one overdue bill from collapse.
The flea market sprawled across a foggy parking lot, all damp cardboard and old stories. I had one crumpled bill left and a kid who tripped because his sneakers were too small. Then I saw them: tiny brown leather shoes, soft and almost new.
She looked at Stan, then at me, and sighed. “For you, five.”
Back home, he sat cross-legged on the floor, blocks everywhere. “New shoes?” he beamed.