THE POOR MAN

 Mr. Ray heard his son’s wail long before he turned onto his street. He shook his head, helpless, trudging home under the weight of another failed morning. His mind was elsewhere — rent, hunger, tomorrow — when his foot struck a jagged stone. Blood seeped from his toe. He cursed under his breath, lips curling into a snarl. Passersby gave him a wide berth.

He had woken at four, hurried to the construction site, only to be turned away.

“No slots,” the foreman said, barely looking up. “Men were here since two.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Ray asked, voice cracking.

“Sorry, man. Things are hard.”

“This isn’t fair.”

“That’s your problem.”

And just like that, he was sent home — empty-handed, to a crying child and a wife who had long stopped believing in miracles.

He glanced at his bleeding toe, kept walking. As he rounded the corner, his shack came into view. His wife sat on the stoop, their five-year-old son on her lap, screaming. A small crowd lingered, watching like it was free theater.

Mr. Ray quickened his pace, eyes fixed ahead.

“What is this?” he growled as he neared.

“What do you mean?” she shot back.

“Shut the boy up. You’re embarrassing me.”

“He’s hungry. So am I. What did you bring?”

“No work today.”

“No work?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are we supposed to eat?”

“I don’t know. Just—make him stop.”

“With what?”

She laughed — a sharp, bitter sound, eyes wild. “Breast? These?” She slapped her chest. “They’re dry, Ray. Dry. Our son is five. Did you forget that too?”

He stepped back. She rose, spit flying as she spoke. “Don’t make me angry. I’m twenty-four, but I look eighty. I left my family for you. For this. They warned me. I didn’t listen. Now look — I lost everything, and you stand there asking me what to do?”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” he muttered, glancing at the growing crowd.

“Embarrassed?” she shouted. “You’re embarrassed? You can’t feed your own child and you worry about what people think?”

The boy slipped from her arms and hit the ground. His cries sharpened. She didn’t even look down.

“I ran from home for freedom,” she said, voice breaking. “They disowned me. For you. And every day I regret it. Every. Single. Day.”

“Don’t say that,” he warned, stepping closer. “Or you’ll regret it.”

“Regret?” She laughed again, colder now. “I already do.”

He raised a hand — not to strike, but in fury — when a voice cut through.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

A man stepped forward from the crowd. Mid-fifties, sharp suit, polished shoes. Security flanked him discreetly.

“This doesn’t concern you,” Mr. Ray snapped.

“Shut up, you fool.”

“How dare you—”

The man didn’t flinch. “I said shut up. If you know what’s good for you.”

Mr. Ray froze. The suit alone could feed them for months. That watch — real diamond? He scanned the shadows: bodyguards.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice low.

“I’m Mary’s father,” the man said. “I changed my mind about disowning her. I’ve been watching from across the street. Seeing how my daughter lives. How you treat her. I was wrong to let her go. I’m taking her and my grandson home.”

“You can’t—”

“I can. And I will.”

“They’re my family.”

“Family?” The man’s voice dripped contempt. “You were about to hit her. In front of your son. What kind of man does that?”

Mary looked up, dazed. She hadn’t seen her father in six years. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. The man flicked a finger. A sleek car door opened. His assistant appeared, gently guiding her and the boy toward it.

“MARY!” Mr. Ray shouted, voice cracking. Tears stung his eyes. “Don’t do this!”

Someone in the crowd muttered, “Go hustle, man. Then you won’t be treated like this.”

Mary didn’t look back. The car door closed. Tires rolled over dust and broken dreams.

Her father sat beside her in the back seat, voice soft now.

“Next time,” he said, “look for a man who can carry you, not drag you down. Don’t jump blind.”

She stared out the window as the shack — and the life she’d chosen — disappeared behind them.

Mr. Ray