I want you to know when to give it away.

Eli's lip trembled.

Being kind doesn't mean saving everyone.

Sometimes it means sitting beside someone who is hurting.

Sometimes it means saying no.

Sometimes it means asking for help.

And sometimes it means giving someone the only umbrella you have.

Then came the final lines.

Your mother will probably worry that you gave away something important.

I laughed softly.

Eli smiled.

Tell her I knew she would.

Then:

And tell her I'm sorry I left before I could teach you this myself.

Eli began crying.

I pulled him into my arms.

Then he read the last sentence.

The greatest thing I could leave you was never the umbrella. It was the person you become after you give it away.

We cried together.

Maya Came Back

A few days later, the pregnant woman from the bus stop came to our house.

Her name was Maya.

She stood at the gate.

One hand rested over her stomach.

In her other hand was the blue umbrella.

It was folded neatly.

She looked nervous.

“I think this belongs to you.”

I smiled.

“No.”

She looked surprised.

“It belongs to you now.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“My mother told me about your husband.”

“I know.”

“He saved us once.”

I nodded.

“He didn't save us with medicine,” she continued.

“He just stayed.”

Then she looked at Eli.

“He gave me this yesterday.”

Eli smiled.

“You needed it.”

She laughed through tears.

“I did.”

Then she said something unexpected.

“My baby is due in six weeks.”

Eli smiled.

“Is it a boy or girl?”

“We don't know.”

She looked at him.

“But if it's a girl, I'm thinking of naming her Elena.”

“Why?”

“Because your father told my mother that names were just another way of saying, ‘You matter.’”

I looked at Eli.

He smiled.

Maya held out the umbrella.

He gently pushed it back toward her.

“Keep it.”

She nodded.

And then she did something even more unexpected.

She handed him a small folded piece of paper.

“Your dad once told my mother that storms always end.”