I was rocking my baby, Emma, in the corner of the CVS waiting area, praying that her bottle would last until they called our name. We’d been there nearly an hour. Her pediatrician, Dr. Morales, had prescribed a new medication for her reflux, and the pharmacy kept saying they were still preparing it. Outside, it was raining cats and dogs.
My arms ached from holding her, but I didn’t dare put her down. The moment I did, she’d start crying again.
Sometimes, on days like this, my mind drifts back to how it all started. I met Emma’s father at a friend’s barbecue two and a half years ago. He had that easy smile and a confidence that instantly attracted people. When I spoke to him for the first time, I thought I’d finally found the man I’d dreamed about my entire life.
We planned trips together and talked about the future. He’d laugh and say he couldn’t wait to build a family someday. His words felt so genuine, and I believed every single one of them.
But when I told him I was pregnant, the look in his eyes changed. It was like watching a door slam shut right in front of me. The warmth disappeared, replaced by something cold and distant. He said he needed time to think. I understood. I gave him space.
The next morning, his phone was disconnected. A week later, his apartment was empty except for a note: “I’m sorry. I’m not ready to be a father.”
So now, it’s just me and Emma. I’ve been raising her alone ever since.
She started fussing again. I bounced her gently and whispered, “Shh, sweetheart, Mommy’s got you,” trying not to notice people staring.
A pharmacist behind the counter sighed loudly. “Ma’am, could you please step aside? You’re blocking the pickup lane.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, shifting a few inches. “She just needs a minute.”
Another woman snapped from behind me: “Maybe don’t bring your baby to a pharmacy like it’s a daycare.”
My throat tightened. I wanted to explain that I had no choice—there was no one to watch Emma. Laughter rippled from the line. My cheeks burned with shame.
Then the woman stepped closer and said, loudly, “YOU SHOULD GO OUTSIDE. I CAN’T BEAR THAT BABY CRYING ANYMORE.”
Several people murmured agreement.
I gathered Emma’s things with shaking hands, preparing to leave. Emma’s crying halted suddenly. Her little eyes were fixed on something behind the woman.
I turned—and nearly dropped the bottle.
A man in a unicorn onesie was walking toward us. A fluffy hood, a horn, the whole thing. It was so ridiculous that Emma giggled—a tiny sound that cracked through the tension.
The woman frowned. “What on earth are you doing?”
The man stepped between us. “Why are you harassing my wife?” he said calmly.
My jaw dropped.
The woman stammered, “I didn’t know—”
“You thought it was okay to bully a mom with a baby?” he asked. “You want to explain that outside?”
The woman grabbed her prescription and practically ran out.
The pharmacy fell silent.
I stared at the man—this complete stranger in a unicorn suit—who’d just defended me like it was his job. Emma reached for the fuzzy hood, giggling again.
“Uh… who are you?” I asked.
He smiled warmly. “Tom. I live nearby. I saw what was happening through the window. My nephew left this onesie in my car—figured a baby might like it better than angry adults.”
I laughed for the first time that day. Emma was mesmerized by him.
“Sorry about the ‘my wife’ thing,” he whispered. “Didn’t want them picking on a single mom. Hope your husband doesn’t mind.”
“No husband,” I said softly. “It’s just me and her.”
His eyes softened. “Then you’re doing amazing.”
Minutes later, they finally called my name. As I tried juggling boxes, bottles, and the stroller, Tom waited by the door.
“Need a ride? It’s pouring, and the unicorn doesn’t bite.”
He drove us home, still in that onesie, and carried Emma’s bag up three flights of stairs. At my door, he was making silly faces that had Emma giggling again.
“Thank you,” I said. “You have no idea what that meant.”
“Anyone who judges a mom for a fussy baby has clearly never cared for a kid,” he replied.
I learned Tom was a graphic designer, adored his nephews, loved cheesy sci-fi, and believed life was too short to be serious all the time.
He texted the next day to ask how Emma was doing.
Then he showed up a week later with a giant stuffed unicorn for her.
One visit turned into two, then three. He helped fix things around my apartment. Cooked when I was too exhausted. Listened when I talked. Never treated me like a burden. And slowly, I realized I was falling in love with him.
Emma adored him. She took her first steps toward him.
Two years later, that same man who walked into CVS in a unicorn onesie stood next to me at city hall as we said our vows. Emma, in a unicorn-embroidered dress, was our flower girl.
Tom adopted her a few months later. She called him “Daddy” for the first time in court. He cried. So did I.
Now whenever Emma is sick or sad, Tom still pulls on that silly onesie and dances until she laughs. It’s become our little family tradition.
So if you ever see a tired mom with a crying baby—don’t judge. Be kind. You never know what someone is going through.
