The Small Things

It's the small things that will get you in the end. It wasn't the long shifts or the benches that became my home, but a baby. She was about 18 months. She was so big, I would have thought she was three if her mother hadn't told me otherwise. I saw them every day, on the long walk to the factory. Each day the clothes were shabbier, the bones were more prudent.

She never stopped crying for the food she couldn't ahve. I started to leave money, for the baby I mean. First, it was a few bucks under the blanker, a fiver in her coat pocket. Then it became half of my paychecks. Slowly I was dwindling away the money I spent my life to save. I took another job, ditched the apartment, and started to live the life of a failure. The mother finally noticed me, and thanked me profusely. There was only one thing that could have saved me, her father.

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