But even as he said it, doubt crept in. The apartment was small, one-bedroom that Lily got while Marcus slept on the couch. The fridge was usually half empty by the end of the week. And birthday presents, Christmas gifts. Those came from the clearance rack at Walmart when they came at all.
Was that enough? Was love enough when you couldn't afford dance lessons or summer camp or any of the things other kids had? Marcus didn't know anymore. Three days ago, he would have said yes without hesitation. But 3 days ago, he hadn't seen the look on the family court judge's face during the preliminary hearing.
Hadn't seen the way the man's eyes had swept over his worn clothes, his callous hands, his exhaustion. "You're already judged," that voice whispered again. They took one look at you and decided, "Shut up," Marcus said out loud. "Just shut up." The rain seemed to pound harder in response.
"And then headlights." Marcus squinted through the windshield. Up ahead, maybe a quarter mile, he could see tail lights glowing red through the storm, a car on the shoulder, and next to it were those people. He slowed down, wiping condensation from the inside of the windshield with his sleeve. The figures became clearer.
Two of them standing in the rain beside what looked like a dark sedan. One of them was waving. "No," Marcus said, pressing the gas pedal. "No, no, no, not tonight. I can't tonight."
He had enough problems. The hearing was in 72 hours. He needed to get home. Needed to sleep. Needed to figure out how to convince a judge that being poor didn't mean being a bad father.
The figures grew larger in his windshield. Women, young women, soaking wet, standing in a storm that could kill them if they got struck by lightning or hit by a passing truck. Damn it. Marcus's foot moved to the brake before his brain could stop it. The Honda slowed, pulled to the side, stopped.
He sat there for a moment, rain hammering the roof like a thousand tiny fists. "Keep driving," the voice said. You don't have time for this. You don't have the energy. You don't have anything to give.
But then he thought about Lily, 6 years old, with her mother's brown eyes and her father's stubborn streak. What if it was her someday? What if she was stranded somewhere scared and alone and everyone just kept driving? God help me, Marcus muttered. He pushed open the door and stepped into the storm.
The rain hit him like a wall, cold and hard and relentless. Within seconds, his work shirt was soaked through, plastered to his skin. He jogged toward the stranded car, squinting against the downpour. "Hey," he called out. "You okay?"
The two figures turned. Identical faces looked back at him. Twins maybe 19 or 20 years old, with dark hair matted to their foreheads and mascara running down their cheeks. They were wearing clothes that Marcus recognized immediately expensive. Designer, the kind of things he saw in magazine ads and department store windows, never on actual people he knew.
"Oh, thank God," one of them said, rushing toward him. "Thank God someone stopped." "We've been here for over an hour," the other one added, her voice shaking. Our car just died and our phones are dead and nobody nobody would stop. Hey.