My son gave his umbrella to a pregnant stranger in the rain. The next morning, 47 umbrellas appeared in our garden, each in a numbered box that took my breath away.

“There was a woman at the bus stop,” she said quickly. “She was pregnant, Mom. Very pregnant. She was crying, her coat was soaked, and no one was helping her.”

I could only stare at him.

“So you gave him your jacket too?”

She glanced down at her damp shirt. “She was cold too. And she had to worry about herself and the baby. If I got sick, you’d make me soup and I’d be fine.”

I put my fingers to my mouth. How was I supposed to stay angry?

“Or…”

“I didn’t want to lose him,” she said. “I promise. But Dad always said you shouldn’t wait to help.”

Those words took away all the anger I felt.
Darren said it all the time. When a neighbor’s car wouldn’t start. When someone spilled a shopping bag. Even when we were already running late.

“Don’t wait to help someone in need, Carina.”

I hugged Eli tightly.

“Your father would be proud of you,” I whispered.

He stood still. “Are you?”

That almost broke me.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m proud of you too.”

I’ll help you change your  clothes and make you hot chocolate with way too many marshmallows. She sat down at the kitchen table, her hands clutching the  mug.

“Do you think he’ll bring it back?” she asked. “I told him where we live.”

“I don’t know, darling. But maybe he’ll surprise us.”

“Maybe,” he said softly.

That night, after Eli fell asleep, I touched the empty hook by the door. Darren’s keys, his hat, his  coat, and, after his fall, Eli’s umbrella had all hung there.

“I know you’d be proud of him,” I whispered. “But I still wanted that umbrella to come home.”

Three mornings later, I opened the front door to get the newspaper and dropped my coffee cup. It smashed against the porch.

The hot coffee splashed on my ankle, but I barely noticed.

All I could see was my garden, full of open umbrellas.

Forty-seven of them.

They were arranged in neat rows from the mailbox to the maple tree. Under each umbrella was a small white box with a number painted on the lid.

Numbered from 1 to 47.

“Mom?” Eli shouted from behind me.

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