A mom screamed at me because her kid didn’t win a balloon from our store’s giveaway. I calmly handed one to the kid. She snatched it from him, threw it at me, and shouted, ‘Let me speak to the manager now!’ What I didn’t expect was that her son came up to me and said, ‘I wish you were my mom.’
I stood there, stunned.
The bright red balloon had rolled across the floor, bumping into the candy display. My shift vest suddenly felt heavier. The boy looked up at me with these big, watery eyes.
He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. I smiled, a bit awkwardly, unsure what to say. His mother was still yelling something about customer rights and how we were traumatizing her child.
“I’m sorry,” the little boy whispered. I bent down to his level. “It’s not your fault.
You did nothing wrong.”
He nodded but looked embarrassed, maybe even ashamed. That hit me harder than the balloon ever could. My manager, Alina, came rushing over with the tired, forced smile she wore on Saturdays.
She pulled me aside while the woman launched into her complaint like she was delivering a closing argument in court. I watched the boy sneak over to the balloon, pick it up, and tie it to his wrist while his mom wasn’t looking. Alina sighed.
“I know you didn’t do anything wrong, but go take your break. I’ll handle her.”
I took off my vest and headed toward the back, but before I disappeared, I heard the mom say, “This place is trash! And that girl—she tried to humiliate my son!”
I bit my tongue.
My breakroom smelled like over-microwaved fish again. I sat down, scrolling through my cracked phone screen, trying to shake it off. But all I could think about was that boy.
“I wish you were my mom.”
That wasn’t just a throwaway line. You could feel it. He meant it.
I clocked back in twenty minutes later, and the storm had passed. The woman was gone, and so was the boy. I went about the rest of my shift like usual—restocking shelves, helping elderly customers find things, answering the same questions for the hundredth time.
But I couldn’t forget his face. The next few days passed, and I went back to my routine. I worked at “PennyPal,” a discount store in a small town, not exactly glamorous.
I was saving up for community college, living with my aunt after my mom passed two years ago. She’d been a single mom, too. Did her best, worked long hours, and still made time to teach me how to braid hair and make soup from scratch.
Saturday rolled around again. I was at the balloon station when I saw the boy again. He was alone this time, holding a small wrinkled dollar bill.
“Hi,” he said shyly. I smiled. “Hey!
You came back!”
He nodded. “I wanted to get a balloon. For real this time.
Not for free.”
I waved the dollar away. “No way. You’re my favorite customer.
You get the deluxe balloon.”
I reached under the counter for a sparkly one we usually saved for birthdays. He watched, wide-eyed, as it inflated and danced in the air. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Micah,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“Call me Brie.”
He held the balloon string close to his chest like it was made of gold. “Brie… can I ask you something weird?”
I braced myself.
“Sure.”
“Is it okay to not like your mom?”
My chest tightened. I took a moment before answering. “Yeah.
Sometimes people hurt us, even when they’re supposed to love us. It doesn’t make you bad for feeling that way.”
He looked relieved, like I’d just unlocked a secret code. We chatted for a few more minutes.
He told me his mom worked nights and got angry a lot. He didn’t have many friends at school. He liked drawing, especially rockets and dogs.
And he had a pet rock named Felix. “Felix?” I laughed. “That’s a great name.”
He grinned.
“He listens better than most people.”
Micah became a regular. Every Saturday, he’d show up around noon, either with a crumpled dollar, a soda cap to trade, or just to talk. Sometimes he brought me drawings.
Once, he gave me a paper crown that said, “Best Store Queen.”
The other employees started noticing. “Brie’s got a little shadow now,” Alina joked once. I didn’t mind.
Truth was, those few minutes with Micah each week became the highlight of my shift. But it didn’t stay sweet forever. One Saturday, Micah didn’t come.
Or the one after that. I tried to tell myself he was just busy, maybe visiting family or had soccer practice. Three weeks passed.
I started checking the door every time it chimed. Then one rainy Thursday, I saw him. But not in the store.
I was on the bus heading home, when I spotted him through the fogged window. He was walking fast, wearing a too-thin hoodie, soaked from head to toe. There was a bruise under his eye.
Without thinking, I rang the bell and jumped off the bus. “Micah!” I called. He froze.
When he saw me, his lips quivered. “You okay?” I asked, walking toward him. He looked down.
“I ran away.”
My stomach dropped. “From home?”
He nodded. “She hit me… hard this time.
I was scared.”
I knelt in front of him, the rain dripping off my hair. “Do you want me to take you somewhere safe?”
He didn’t speak, just nodded again. I took him to my aunt’s.
She was a retired nurse with a heart of gold and a sixth sense for when someone was hurting. She made Micah tea, wrapped him in a blanket, and called child services. Micah didn’t go back home that night.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
