When Nobody Sees

It started like most things do these days—in the middle of something ordinary. I was getting bread. The soft kind, not seeded, because my husband complains it gets stuck in his teeth. I usually go early to avoid the crowd, but that morning I’d lingered. The tomatoes were good. And there was a clearance trolley near the freezer aisle—always worth a peek.

That’s when I saw her.

Young woman, thin as a wisp, pushing a buggy like it weighed a ton. Her hair was flat against her scalp, and she had that look some mothers get—far away and up too close all at once. You see it sometimes. I saw it once in my daughter, just after her first, and I didn’t know what to say then either.

She stood by the pasta sauces like she couldn’t read any of the labels. The baby was quiet, thank God. Dummy in, eyes alert. I remember thinking he was a good baby—the quiet kind—but I’m not sure what I meant by it.

I watched as she froze. Not in a dramatic way. Just... stopped. Hand halfway to the shelf. Like a buffering video. Like her brain had left her body for a moment. That’s what made me keep watching. I’m nosy. I’ll admit it.

That’s when the old woman came up.

Bit of a character. Seen her around before—looks like she knows where every markdown is before it happens. Neat, but sour. Smelled of lavender and something less lovely. I don’t know her name, but I’ve clocked her often enough.

She said something to the baby. Bent down. Too close. I couldn’t hear. The mum still had that glazed look, hand patting down her coat like she was trying to remember something. The list, maybe.

Then the baby cried—a cry that snapped something in the air, made you look even if you didn’t want to. People turned. Not everyone, but enough.

And then the slap. Sharp. Real.

The mum—she grabbed the old woman’s wrist and hit her right across the face. It was fast. I’d never seen someone move that quickly and still look so tired.

There was no screaming. No shouting. Just shock.

The old woman stumbled, blinking, and I did what I suppose anyone might. I stepped in. Took the mum’s arm gently. Told her to let go. My voice was calm. I didn’t feel calm. But I kept my voice steady.

"Okay, love. Let go of the old woman now."

She did.

She turned straight to the baby, pulled him from the buggy, and held him like she’d remembered something important. Rocked him gently, murmuring in a way that almost sounded like singing.

The old woman— I think she said something about not wanting trouble. Her cheek was red, but her pride looked more bruised. She sat herself down on the bench near the pharmacy and started telling anyone who’d listen that she was just trying to be kind.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. People had seen what they’d seen.

And the mum—well, she left. No one stopped her. She looked different, walking away. Not proud, not relieved—but anchored. Like she was finally standing in her own body again.

Funny how something so small can shift everything. It wasn’t about right or wrong, not really. It wasn’t about sides. But it made me think.

We talk a lot, us older ones, about what’s wrong with the world now. Young people, their attitudes, how they raise their kids. But I tell you, there was a fire in that woman—something raw and ancient—and it wasn’t madness.

It was love in a form we rarely see. Fierce. Messy. Unapologetic.

And maybe, I think now, maybe we should stop mistaking silence for failure. Or dishevelment for weakness. Or pain for danger.

Maybe, we should just... look closer.