I don't know her name, but she looked tired.
The responsibilities of being a mom were at war with the pressures of being a student.
It can't be easy, and I applaud her for persevering.
There he was, crying in the stroller next to his mom, while she tried to pore over her book. One hand held a pen or a pencil, I couldn't tell which, while the other tried to keep strands of hair from falling in her face.
Another woman, I don't even know if she knew the mother, came and played with Little One, pacifying him for five, maybe ten minutes.
But then she had to go.
Little One was obviously sick, his cries tangling up in congested coughs.
How does she do it?
I had some reading to do, so I moved up a floor in the UC.
Little One's cries still could be heard, echoing, climbing up the open spaces, to my chair on the third floor.
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