Let me back up a bit.
When I gave away the clothes, I was in a weird place. My daughter, Reina, had just turned four and was growing like a weed. I was working part-time at a library, barely holding things together after my mom passed away from a sudden stroke. My husband, Elion, had started picking up night shifts, and we were like two ghosts floating past each other in the hallway.
Giving away those clothes wasn’t some generous act. It was me trying to do something. Make space. Clear a shelf. Feel a sliver of control over my mess of a life.
And then I got that message from the woman. Her name was Nura. I remember it now because I asked her to include it for the mailing label. Just “Nura, from Tarnow.” Tarnow was four hours away from me—too far to meet, not far enough to
