I stood waiting for the bus on another bright and chilly morning in the northeast quadrant of Washington, D.C. A young mother approached the bus shelter with three children in tow. As she came closer, I could tell she was holding blankets in her arms. An infant’s wail erupted from the bundle of fleece – make that four little ones in tow. 
One of the smaller girls lagged behind her siblings. She was having a bad day, and decided, rather defiantly, to plop right down on the bus median. She curled up and began crying on the sidewalk. Busses pulled up to the median, and a sea of commuters swirled around the inconsolable child. Some passersby paused, and a few glanced around curiously, if not nervously.
Her older sister, probably not older than 7, implored her little sister to catch up. The mother’s patience was wearing thin, her hands were a jumble of tiny backpacks, dirty tissues and – not to mention – the baby. “Come on,” the mother shouted without looking back.
After some minutes, a man approached the child, looking around for the responsible adult. Dressed for the office, he took charge: “Whose child is this?” he asked to those within earshot. “Whose child? Why is this girl alone?” Her mother – still several yards away – made a muffled reply. The man paused, made the connection between child and mom, and walked away, shaking his head in frustration.
The little girl just cried harder.
Standing there, witness to this scene, I froze. I just didn’t know what to do with myself. Here was just one mother, trying to grab hold of four little hands. Trying to get onto a bus. Trying to start her day. Maybe she already felt defeated. It seemed like such an unfair equation.
I wondered: Did I freeze out of fear? Did I freeze because I simply didn’t know what to do?