I was sixteen when I first met a pregnant homeless woman at a community outreach center. After she passed away, I ended up raising her son as my own. I believed I understood everything about him—until years later, my husband discovered something that completely changed how I saw things.
I began volunteering at the outreach center when I was sixteen. You know how it is with college applications—everyone wants proof that you care about something bigger than yourself.
The center was a converted brick building near the riverwalk. It provided free prenatal checkups, donated clothes, and hot meals twice a week. That was where I met the woman who would change my life.
My responsibilities there were simple: folding clothes, wiping tables, handing out intake forms, and offering a friendly smile to people who looked like they needed one.
That’s when I met Marisol.
She rarely came during meal hours. Instead, she would quietly slip inside when the building was mostly empty. She was thin, visibly pregnant, and always kept her hair tightly pulled back.
Her eyes were alert but exhausted, the kind of tiredness that made you wonder when she had last truly rested.
For illustrative purposes only
Every time we offered shelter referrals, she politely refused. She never gave an address either. Once she said she slept “near the water,” which was vague enough to reveal nothing and everything at the same time.
Her voice was gentle and polite, almost as if she felt guilty for existing.
I noticed that Marisol never asked questions, never complained, and never stayed longer than necessary. She would take what she needed, thank us sincerely, and quietly disappear again.
Sometimes while folding donated sweaters or wiping plastic chairs, I would find myself wondering about her. Where did she go afterward? Who had she been before her life led her to sleeping near the river?
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