My favourite stranger

I met my favourite stranger today.

I was at the supermarket with Mum.

I don’t really know why adults call it grocery shopping. Mum was doing the shopping.

I was doing the important stuff.
Walking.
Looking at things.
Touching things I wasn’t supposed to touch.

Then I saw him.

A man.

Tall.

Quiet.

Standing there doing absolutely nothing interesting.
Which, to me, apparently meant:
SAFE**.**

So I ran towards him.
And hugged his leg.
Really tightly.

He looked down at me.
I looked up at him.
He looked confused.
I was confused too.

But I had already made my decision.
This was my person now.

Then Mum came.

She held out her hand.
“No.”

She tried again.
“NO!”

I hugged the man’s leg harder.

Mum looked at me.
Then at the man.
Then at me again.
She sighed and walked away.

Excellent.
Problem solved.

Except…
She didn’t come back.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

I started wondering where she was.

The man was still there.
He was trying to talk to me.
I didn’t answer.

He offered me chocolate.
I considered it.
But chocolate wasn’t the problem.
Mum was.

Then I started crying.

Not a little cry.

The big one.

The kind where you forget how to breathe properly and everyone in the supermarket suddenly becomes interested in your life.

Two other adults came over.
They tried to pull me away from my new safe person.
Absolutely not.

I screamed louder.

The man looked like he was about to lose his mind.

Then an old man stopped.
He looked at me.
Looked at the man.
And said something angry.
I didn’t understand what he said.

But the man looked even more upset.

Everyone was upset.

Except me.

I was busy crying.
And then…

Mum came back.
Finally.

I felt relieved.

She walked over.

She smacked my head.

I let go.

She grabbed my hand.
And we walked away.

I looked back at the man.
He was still standing there.
He looked exhausted.

I think he was wondering what had just happened.
Honestly?
Same.

But I know one thing.

For fifteen whole minutes, that man was the safest person in the supermarket.

I don’t know his name.

I don’t know where he came from.

I don’t even know why I chose him.

But sometimes, when you’re three years old, you don’t need a reason.

You just know.

And apparently…
I had chosen my stranger 🌝