Sometimes people stopped and listened.
Most just walked by without a glance.
But I did not care.
I played until my fingers ached and my shoulders burned.
With the coins people dropped into my open case, I could buy formula and diapers.
It was barely enough.
But it kept Sophie alive.
And I never begged.
Not once.
Eventually, I found a tiny, crumbling studio above a grocery store in Dorchester.
The building was old and the stairs creaked under my feet.
The walls needed paint.
The window let in a draft.
But the door locked, and that was enough.
The landlord was a retired nurse named Mrs. Florence Baker.
She had kind eyes and a gentle voice.
When she saw me standing in the doorway with Sophie in my arms, she did not ask a thousand questions.
She just looked at me for a long moment.
Then she said, “I see something in you, dear.
Something strong.”
She offered me a discount on the rent if I would help out at her shop downstairs.
I said yes before she could change her mind.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“You won’t regret this.”
She
