So there’s this woman at my bus stop? Always wears this jangly bracelet with like, 50 charms. One day it’s raining and my umbrella broke. She goes, “Kid, come here,” and clips this tiny spoon charm to my bag. Says it’s from her first diner job. “You’ll need luck more than me today.” Now I see her every Tuesday. Last week she gave me a duck-shaped charm. Still no idea why. But I keep ‘em.

Aunt Linda isn’t even my aunt—she’s Dad’s coworker’s ex-wife. But when I moved cross-country, she showed up with a Crock-Pot of chili and said, “Your sheets look scratchy. We’re going to Target.” She’s the reason I own a plunger, a fire extinguisher, and a *fancy* cheese knife (“For emergencies, honey”). Last month, she FedExed me a snow shovel with a note: “The weatherman’s a liar. Be ready.”

My mother’s sewing machine hummed late into every night. She patched my school uniforms, turning frayed edges into neat seams. At 15, I complained: “Why can’t I just buy new clothes?” She silently handed me a photo - her teenage self, mending her brother’s shirt by candlelight during wartime. Now, whenever I sew a button, I hear her voice: “Care for what’s torn, and it becomes stronger.”

Mom packed my school lunch for 12 years. Peanut butter sandwiches always had a tiny smiley face scratched into the bread crust. When I failed my driving test at 16, the smiley became a heart. At my wedding, she slipped a note into my purse - Today’s sandwich would’ve had confetti!