I was standing in the bathroom holding a set of shower curtain rings the color of a bad bruise.
The ones I'd bought were supposed to be chrome. They came in the mail looking like something my mother would have picked out thirty years ago.
It was a February weeknight, the gravel road slick with ice, and I was too tired to fight the return.
I'd been in court all day, my fingers cramped from the steno machine, and now I was home, caretaker again, failing at a simple curtain.
Then you knocked. Not a call, not a text. Just a knock and a box in your hands.
The right ones. Chrome. You'd seen the delivery truck leave, seen the color on my face from the road.
You never asked what happened. You never asked why I was alone with a sick mother and a job that pays in pennies.
You just handed me the box, said, 'These are the ones you meant to get,' and walked back to your truck.
I still don't know how you knew. But I think you saw a woman who needed one less thing to be wrong, and you made it right without a word.