I was eight months pregnant and wedged into a tram seat, counting stops like breaths, when a woman climbed on with a baby and a bag big enough to have its own zip code. She looked washed thin—eyes hollow, hair scraped back, the kind of tired that lives in your bones. No one moved. My body did before my brain caught up. I stood and offered my seat. She gave me a look I couldn’t read—surprise, maybe grief—and sat without a word. At her stop she rose, adjusted the baby, and on her way past slipped something into my tote....
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