I was 17 when I welcomed my twins.
At that age, I was broke, exhausted, barely getting through each day, and still clinging to school as an honor student as if it were the one thing that might save me.
My parents didn't see it that way.
They said I'd ruined everything. They told me I was on my own. Within days, I didn't have any help or a place to stay.
My parents didn't see it that way.
By November 1998, I was juggling classes, two newborns, and whatever work I could find. My children's father had asked me to abort, so he wasn't in the picture. Most nights, I worked the late shift at the university library.
The girls, Lily and Mae, stayed wrapped against my chest in a worn sling I'd picked up secondhand.
I lived off instant noodles and campus coffee.
It wasn't a plan, just survival.
I was juggling classes.
***
That fateful night, the rain came down hard in Seattle as I left work.
I only had $10 to my name. It was enough for bus fare and bread, about three days of survival if I stretched it.
I stepped out of the library with a cheap umbrella, adjusting the sling so the girls stayed dry. That's when I saw him.
An older man sat under a rusted awning across the street. His clothes were soaked through. He wasn't asking anyone for anything. He wasn't even looking up.
He was just sitting there, shaking so badly it hurt to watch.
That's when I saw him.
I knew that feeling.
And before I could stop myself, I crossed the street.
Without thinking, I pulled the money from my pocket and pressed it into his hand.
"Please… get something warm."
He looked up then, really looked at me.
And for some reason, I asked, "What's your name?"
There was a pause.
Then, quietly, he said, "Arthur."
I nodded.
