Free Who Do I Lean On? by Neta Jackson

Estelle, Edesa, Jodi Baxter . . . someone. Pray about it together. I’ll be praying about it too.”
    â€œI’d like that.” I stood up to go. “Thanks again, Mabel.”
    â€œOh—and one more thing.”
    Now I laughed aloud.
    â€œOkay, okay, never mind.” She waved me off and turned to her computer, pretending to work.
    â€œMabel! What?”
    She whirled her desk chair to face me. “Your Paul seems to get along well with the kids here. The last few weeks before school starts are likely to be nuts around here, since city summer camps are over and we don’t really have any activities for the kids going on. Do you think he’d want to volunteer a few days a week? During the time you’re here? Just play with the kids, be a big brother. We could give him a volunteer T-shirt.”
    My feet wanted to dance. “ Yes! I mean, I’ll have to ask him. No, better yet, you ask him. Make it official. Give me ten minutes to disappear, though. Don’t want him to think it was my idea.” I darted out the door—and two seconds later poked my head back in. “Oh, one more thing,” I snickered. “He already has a T-shirt. You gave one to both boys the first time they visited.”
    Still grinning, I slipped through the multipurpose room and down the stairs without Paul noticing me. I’d been worried about finding something for the boys to do until school started, even with my shortened hours. But look at God! He’d answered my prayer before I’d even prayed about it.
    â€œYeah,” I overhead Paul telling P.J. in the backseat as we headed for Foster Avenue Beach later that afternoon. “Ms. Turner asked if I’d be a volunteer at the shelter, helping out with the little kids. She gave me another T-shirt since I’ve worn that other one a lot. I’m supposed to wear it so the kids know I’m the boss.”
    â€œHa!” P.J. snorted. “Did you tell her you used the first one to clean your bicycle after you greased the wheels?”
    I stifled a laugh and stayed out of it. Younger brothers always lived in their older siblings’ shadows. But Mabel’s volunteer job offer had definitely raised Paul’s status. His big brother couldn’t tease him for “playing with the little kids” if it was a job .
    Foster Avenue Beach was within sight of Richmond Towers, but the boys had already been there a few times earlier in the summer, and this is where they’d swim when they were with their dad, so familiarity and consistency had points in their favor. I spread my beach towel so my back was to the row of luxury high-rises in the distance. P.J. and Paul were both good swimmers and the beach had several lifeguards on duty, so I let my mind and body relax, watching the boys dash for the shoreline.
    It didn’t get much better than this . . . except for the hole in my heart. But I stuffed Philip’s rejection underneath the pleasure of the moment, smothering the nagging pain with the warmth of the sun on my skin, the breeze running gentle fingers through my tangled curls, and the sheer joy of watching P.J. and Paul cavort in the water.
    And the long envelope from Putnam, Fields, and Pederson that was in the mailbox when Paul and I got home from the shelter the next day definitely buoyed my spirits. A check for two hundred thousand dollars, my share of my mother’s term life insurance policy.
    I turned right around and drove to the little branch bank near Manna House where I’d opened a new account and put it all in my checking account. For now. And then I walked a few yards to the Emerald City Coffee Shop underneath the Sheridan El Station, ordered the Kona Mocha—maxi-size—and two of their to-die-for buttery pumpkin cookies, settled back on one of their cushiony couches near the front window . . . and started to cry with sheer thankfulness.
    â€œMom!” Paul accosted me just as I was