My first wife left when our son was just three months old. One morning she kissed his forehead, said she needed air, and never came back.
For weeks, I lived in a fog — surviving on almost no sleep, warming bottles with one hand while paying bills with the other. I did everything I could to hold it together for the tiny person who depended on me.
A few months later, friends convinced me to join them for dinner. I packed the diaper bag, loaded my son into the car seat, and forced myself out of the house.
Halfway through the meal, I smelled it.
Diaper change time.
I headed to the men’s room — and found no changing table. Just a sink and a mirror. I stood there, staring at the wall, unsure what to do.
On my way out, I stopped a woman leaving the ladies’ room.
“Is there any chance it’s empty?” I asked. “I just need to change my son.”
She checked and nodded. “Go ahead.”
As I struggled with wipes and a squirming baby, she stepped back in. “Here,” she said gently. “Let me help.”
“I’ve got it,” I tried to insist — but my voice cracked.
Without hesitation, she placed an arm around my shoulders. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’re doing so well.”
And just like that, everything I’d been holding in came pouring out.
A stranger changed my son while I quietly cried beside them.
Sometimes, a single act of kindness is enough to keep someone going.
