She lowered her gaze, a humble smile surfacing.

“I know what it’s like to have people look right through you, like you’re just something in their way.” She took a slow breath.

“My husband died when our boys were still little.

I cleaned office buildings, prepped kitchens, folded laundry at a commercial laundromat — whatever it took.

So many nights I rode the bus home with both boys asleep across my lap and heavy bags at my feet, praying for one empty seat where I could sit down and breathe.

So tonight, when I saw you standing there with your girl, I couldn’t stay quiet.”