I only needed a cheap stroller. As a single mom, I’d learned how to get by with less. But tucked inside the one I brought home was something I never could have imagined — a hidden box, a letter from a stranger, and a connection that would change my life forever.

I’m Hannah, 32. If you passed me on the street, you probably wouldn’t think twice. Just another woman pushing a stroller, juggling groceries, with her hair in a messy bun and sneakers worn thin. What you wouldn’t notice is the exhaustion behind my eyes or the ache that sinks into my bones at the end of each day.

I live in a tiny two-bedroom apartment where the paint peels off the walls and the fridge hums louder than the TV. My one bright spot in all of it is my daughter, Lucy. She’s three — sharp as a tack, with a giggle that could brighten the darkest night. She has her daddy’s eyes, but not a trace of his presence.

Mike left when Lucy was just eleven months old. I’ll never forget that night. He sat me down, but wouldn’t look me in the eye. He just kept shaking his head, repeating the same words like a broken record.

“I’m too young for this. I want to live my life before it’s too late.”

But Mike…”

“I’m sorry, Hannah. I can’t do this.”

And then he was gone. Off chasing youth with someone younger, someone without spit-up on her shirt or bags under her eyes from sleepless nights. He didn’t even leave a note for Lucy. Just diapers, unpaid bills, and a silence that lingered in our lives.

I’ve carried us ever since.

Some days, I stretch every dollar like it’s magic. Bills come first, then daycare, then groceries — always in that order. Somehow, Lucy doesn’t see the cracks. I make sure of that. She still dances around the kitchen, humming to herself while she colors. I won’t let the weight of the world touch her tiny shoulders.But sometimes, it all piles too high.

Like that Tuesday morning.

The day started fine. I’d picked Lucy up from daycare, and we were heading home with two plastic grocery bags swinging from the stroller handles. She had raisins in one hand and her bunny in the other. Then, without warning, the stroller lurched.

The sound was sharp and sudden, the kind that makes your heart skip because you know something just broke.

One wheel snapped clean off.

Lucy squealed and grabbed the front bar.

“Uh-oh!” she gasped, eyes wide.

“Yes, baby. Uh-oh,” I murmured, forcing a smile while panic clenched my chest.

I scooped her into my arms, groceries banging against my thighs, and dragged the broken stroller behind us like dead weight. By the time we reached the apartment, my arms were trembling, my shirt was plastered to my back with sweat, and tears threatened to spill.

That night, after Lucy fell asleep on the couch with her sippy cup in her lap, I sat at the kitchen table staring at my bank app, willing the numbers to change. Rent was due in six days. The car was running on fumes. And now we needed a new stroller.

A brand-new one? Impossible. Even the cheap ones were too much.

I rubbed my temples, swallowing back tears. Lucy deserved better.