At nineteen, I worked as a delivery driver, spending long nights driving through quiet streets and delivering endless orders. Most nights felt the same—drop off the food, collect the payment, and move on to the next address without giving much thought to the people behind the doors.
One evening, I was sent to a small house on the edge of town. The street was poorly lit, and the house looked worn and tired. When I knocked, a weary woman opened the door with two young children standing quietly behind her.
Something about the scene made me pause. She looked exhausted, and the children appeared hungry and uncomfortable. I didn’t know her story, and I had no idea what she was going through, but I could tell that things were difficult.
