My son tried to pressure me into selling my little bookstore so he could pour the cash into his new company. When I refused, he told me I was choosing “a pile of dusty paper over his future” and cut me off. Years later, a teenage girl who had been sleeping in shelters wandered in asking for work, and the second I saw her face I heard myself say, “Who is your mother and how old are you?” Her answer stole the air from my lungs.
A Stranger Walks In The moment the bookstore door opened, everything in my quiet November afternoon shifted. A teenage girl stepped inside—sixteen, thin, exhausted, her backpack barely holding together. She didn’t browse like a customer looking to buy a book. She moved like someone seeking warmth, safety, and maybe a little hope. When she finally…
