A seven-year-old boy suddenly ran up to me at the playground, hugged me, and whispered, “I found you.”
His mother soon arrived—and froze when she saw me.
“You look exactly like the woman who stayed with me in the hospital the night my son was born,” she said.
Then I remembered.
Seven years earlier, after losing my newborn son, I wandered through the hospital and heard a terrified woman giving birth alone. I stayed beside her, held her hand, and helped her through the delivery.
She had never forgotten me.
“You couldn’t save your own child,” she said, crying, “but you saved me.”
I gently told her son, “I’m not your mom.”
He smiled and replied, “I know. But you feel like her.”
For the first time in years, my grief felt like it had a purpose.
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