The Hand Off
I have an odd confession.
I’m a parking lot stalker.
Not in the creepy way —
In the watching humanity unfold way.
The burger in one hand, empathy in the other way.
I sometimes sit in my car, in some cracked lot outside a store,
and let the world move around me. And just watch.
Quiet. Undisturbed. Present.
Most days there are mundane —
people walking to grocery carts, scrolling phones,
looking both ways without thinking.
But sometimes —
sometimes — I see something that splits me open.
A car pulls in.
It waits.
The driver doesn’t leave.
They’re not there to shop. They’re waiting.
Minutes pass.
Then another car pulls in,
slows beside the first, and parks.
And then…
A door opens.
A child steps out — backpack hanging low, hair tousled by love or maybe grief.
They move to the other car,
and what happens next isn’t just a hand-off —
It’s a passing of hearts.
The parent left behind breathes through the ache.
Maybe they smile. Maybe they wave. Maybe they cry when the window rolls up.
The parent receiving smiles too wide. Hugs too long.
They don’t say it, but it’s written in their posture:
“I’ve missed you.”
“I’m sorry we live like this.”
“Let’s make this weekend soft.”
This might be the closest I have ever come to literally seeing pain. Not expressions of pain or signs of pain — but pain itself. In full view.
And behind it all — beneath custody calendars, legal agreements, and therapists’ notes —
two people who once shared a dream
now share a responsibility
through the fractured lens of a courtroom past.
We call them “broken families.”
But I don’t see it that way.
I see resilience, in transit.
I see parents trying — God, trying — to hold it together with duct tape and grace.
I see brave attempts at peace from people who once warred with each other.
I see children learning what love looks like when it shows up anyway.
No, it’s not easy.
It’s not what anyone planned.
But it’s not broken.
It’s just… different. And it can be quite beautiful and healing.
And I want to say this — if you’re one of them:
To the mom who squeezes goodbye and pretends it doesn’t hurt —
I see you.
To the dad who smiles like everything’s fine when it isn’t —
I see you.
To the parents who meet in parking lots and try,
despite history, despite heartbreak,
to keep their children from carrying the weight of their choices —
I honor you.
You are not broken.
You are not a failure.
You are not invisible.
You are a forest regrowing.
You are love, split into shifts.
You are doing something impossibly hard — and still showing up.
And maybe one day —
those children, grown and whole,
will look back and say:
“They didn’t always get it right… but they never stopped loving me.”
Author’s Note:
I wrote this piece after spending quiet moments observing the simple, profound hand-offs between parents in everyday parking lots. These exchanges are often invisible to the world but deeply sacred to the people living them. This is not a story about brokenness — it’s a story about perseverance, love in transit, and the unseen acts of courage parents make every single day. If you are one of them: I see you. You are not broken. You are beautiful.
