I pushed open the sliding doors, twins strapped in the stroller, shopping list in hand, and a mild dread settling in my chest — because public outings with twins always come with a hidden cost: time. I silently added at least twenty minutes to my schedule, anticipating the inevitable onslaught of “twin questions” from strangers wandering the aisles.
As we moved between shelves, I guided them past cereals and snack bins, scanning the brightly colored boxes while simultaneously keeping track of their restless hands and wandering eyes. My senses were on high alert — for sticky fingers, runaway cereal boxes, or those dreaded strangers who would stop in their tracks and begin with “Oh, are they twins?” or “Which one is older?” or worse — “Aren’t they just adorable!”
And then it happened. As I stood near the cereal aisle, I sensed someone approaching. The old lady paused beside us, her posture undecided — lingering just long enough for me to groan inwardly. I glanced to the side, hoping she’d go on her way. But instead, she gently placed her hand on mine — the hand that rested lightly on the shopping cart’s handle.
My heart tightened. I braced myself for another round of polite but intrusive questions. She spoke softly, almost apologetically:
“Excuse me. I know this is awkward. You’re probably tired of answering questions all the time. But I lost my only grandson last year. Walking through a store and seeing children his age… sometimes it’s the only way I feel close to him again.”
Time slowed. My internal irritation melted away, replaced by a sudden awareness of grief, longing, and vulnerability. She wasn’t being nosy. She was searching for something—some connection, some echo, a momentary bridge to what was gone.
Then she asked something tender, surprising:
“Would your boys like to come and see the fish with me for a little while?”
Her eyes lit up as though she were extending an invitation into a rare, sacred space. I hesitated, protective as ever, but then nodded. I unstrapped the twins from the stroller and together we walked slowly to where she said the fish were — near a large aquarium display.
For about fifteen minutes, she stood with them — encouraging them to hop, whispering cheerful words, watching as they chanted in unison, “Fishy! Fishy!” Their little voices rang out, echoing across the floor of the store. I watched them, and I watched her — her shoulders relaxing, her eyes softening, a small fragile smile tugging at her lips, as though she were breathing life into a memory she refused to let die.
Then she turned to me, gazing into my eyes. Her voice was steady but teary:
“You have no idea what I would give to hear my grandchild laugh one more time.”
I had no ready response. Tears threatened. I simply stood there in silence, present. Then she asked quietly:
“Can I hug them? Please?”
I nodded. She knelt. She hugged Darrio, who stretched out his chubby arms and said, “LUH YOU!” ❤️ She held Dheigo close. And then she turned and folded me in, too — as though we were all part of one fragile circle, sharing comfort across unspoken boundaries.
She said, voice cracking:
“Thank you for letting me have these moments. I know you’re very busy, your hands are full.”
In that moment, all my impatience, all my frustration about how people move slowly or crowd lines or ask the same questions — how trivial it all felt. Because every person you rush past might be carrying a wound deeper than you can imagine. The man driving slowly in front of you might be watching the road through tears. The child banging on your door might be screaming for attention, for care, for love.
We often fail to see the stories behind the faces. We grumble at delays, at annoyances, at strangers asking questions. But what if we paused and considered: maybe that person is opening their hands, holding something fragile. Maybe that interruption is a moment we were meant to step into.
Later I walked to my car with the twins — their laughter still echoing — her words still circling in my mind. That brief encounter had reoriented me. It reminded me that kindness sometimes comes in strange packages: a shared gaze in an aisle, a gentle request to watch fish, a soft request for a hug.
If you ever think someone asking for a moment of your time is a nuisance — think again. You might be the bridge someone needs. You might be the voice letting them feel seen, heard, remembered.