Rebecca stares at the empty pantry. Three crackers. Half a jar of peanut butter. A dented can of green beans.

Four kids will burst through that door in twenty minutes.

Tomorrow, they shut off the water. $127.43. She counts her tip money three times. The electric company calls twice this week. Her ex-husband, three months behind, spends money on his new girlfriend.

The double shift at Waffle House leaves her feet screaming. Grease clings to her hair. Forty-three hours this week. Still not enough. Yesterday, she blows her last fifteen dollars on medicine for Desi’s ear infection.

Rebecca closes her eyes. “Please show up.”

The phone rings. “Rebecca, honey, I drop my glasses again and can’t see to wash these dishes. Could you—”

“Not now, Emma Jo. I’m sorry.”

Rebecca hangs up and slides down the cabinet until she sits on the floor.

The front door slams open. “Mom, we’re home!”

Rebecca scrambles to her feet.

Jamie bursts in and drops his backpack. At twelve, he scans the empty kitchen. “What’s for dinner, Mom?”

“I’m working on it.”

Johnny and Jason tumble in behind him, wrestling and shouting. The twins never stop moving. Backpacks thud. Shoes scatter.

Desi wraps her arms around Rebecca’s legs. “I’m hungry, Mama. Can we have strawberries? I pray for strawberries at school today.”

“Maybe soon.”

Jamie stares at the empty counter. He pulls Rebecca aside. “Mom, should I ask Coach Martinez if he has any extra jobs? I could sweep the gym after practice.”

“No, Jamie.”

“But Mom—”

“I said no.”

The twins discover the empty pantry. “Crackers again?” Jason groans. “These taste like cardboard.”

Desi tugs on Rebecca’s uniform. “Mama, why are you crying?”

The knock comes at 6:47 PM.

Rebecca opens the door. Three women stand on her porch. The youngest wears clean jeans. An older woman with silver hair. The third has callused fingers. Each carries two grocery bags.

“Are you Rebecca?”

“Yes?”

“We bring this for you.”

“I think you have the wrong house. We don’t take charity.”

“There’s no charge.”

Rebecca steps aside. The women file past her, setting six bags on her table. The kids crowd around.

“Who are you?”

“Sometimes people just need to know they’re not forgotten.”

“Wait, I don’t understand—”

But they’re already walking away.

“Mom, come look!”

Rebecca turns back to the table. A rotisserie chicken, still hot. Fresh broccoli and carrots. A gallon of 2% milk. Wheat bread—the kind Jamie likes. Kraft mac and cheese. Häagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream. Ribeye steaks wrapped in butcher paper. Two containers of strawberries. Oreo cookies. Pacific Cooler Capri Suns—the twins’ favorite. Honey Nut Cheerios. Everything name brand.

“Strawberries!” Desi squeals.

Rebecca unpacks the last bag. Her fingers find an envelope. Inside, a cashier’s check made out to Rebecca Martinez for exactly $127.43.

She holds it up to the light. One hundred twenty-seven dollars and forty-three cents.

She sinks into the kitchen chair.

“Mom, are you okay?” Jamie asks.

“More than okay.”

That night, after the kids eat their first real meal in days, Rebecca sits on her porch. She thinks about the timing. 6:47 PM.

The water bill. The exact amount. The strangers who know her children’s names, her address, what Desi loves most.

Even down to the penny.

---

Your turn.

Drop a comment below: What’s your 6:47 PM moment? When did help show up at exactly the right time?

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