I asked her, “Where are the car and the house we bought for you?” She replied that her husband and mother-in-law had kept the car, taken all her money, kicked her out of the house, and were threatening to take her daughter away too. I simply told her, “Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of this.”

That afternoon, I was driving alone. The heat was unbearable, but I didn’t feel like using a chauffeur. Sometimes I need time alone so my head doesn’t explode with the endless problems from home and work. I’m 66 years old, but I still like to drive myself for short distances. I was on my way back from the doctor—not because I was seriously ill, just a routine checkup. The doctor told me my blood pressure rises when I get too upset. And of course, it rises; my life lately has been nothing but reasons to be upset.

I stopped at a large intersection. There was traffic as usual. Motorcycles were weaving everywhere. The sound of horns echoed non-stop. I looked at the clock, then looked forward, and then I saw someone who left my chest feeling as if I’d been struck.

It was a thin woman, her hair all disheveled, her clothes dirty and worn, her feet bare. She was carrying a baby in a front carrier. The child looked overheated, with flushed cheeks. The woman walked from car to car, holding out her hand, receiving coins that she counted quickly. It wasn’t a calm counting, but a desperate one, as if every coin determined her survival. For a moment, I thought, “What a shame!” But then I saw her face more clearly when she leaned down.

It was Emily, my daughter.

Without thinking, I rolled down the window. My voice came out before my brain could process what was happening. “Emily.”

She turned. Her eyes went wide, but not with surprise at finding me—with fear. The kind of fear felt by someone caught doing something shameful. She quickly covered her face with her hand, but it was already too late. I couldn’t move for several seconds. I just stared at her. I saw her hollowed cheekbones, her trembling hands. I saw the baby in the carrier—Isabella, my granddaughter. Her little head rested listlessly.

“Emily, get in, quick,” I said as I opened the passenger door. She hesitated for a moment and shook her head. “Dad, not here. Please let me—”

I interrupted her. My voice came out louder than I intended. “Get in.”