By the end of the week, both Lois and Clark felt the fatigue down to their bones. Long hours, endless calls, follow-ups on a story that refused to resolve itself, one of those stretches where even coffee wasn’t enough.
They walked home after spending Saturday morning at the Planet, Martha tucked into her baby carriage. As they passed the Ghanaian community center, someone waved them over.
Inside, preparations were underway for an upcoming festival. The air was thick with spices and the sound of drums from a back room. Voices overlapped with laughter. Martha blinked at the sudden noise, then yawned.
“Lois!” Abena called from the kitchen doorway, the same woman who had taught her to make kakro last December. She waved them in with flour-dusted hands. “You’re helping today?”
“Absolutely,” Lois answered, already rolling up her sleeves.
Abena’s gaze drifted to the baby carriage. A knowing smile touched her face.
“Ah,” she said, “so the little one has arrived. I am glad.”
Lois felt her cheeks warm, remembering the woman’s words from last year, words that had landed harder than she’d admitted at the time. Abena reached out and brushed her arm.
“Wo anigye ne me anigye,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“‘Your joy is my joy.’ I am happy your wish has been fulfilled.”
Clark was pulled toward a group arranging decorations. Martha’s carriage stayed near the women where Lois could watch her.
Lois chopped plantains under the instruction of two elderly women. Clark carried tables, strung lights, fixed a squeaky door. Someone pressed hot fritters into Lois’s hands. Someone else rocked the carriage when Martha squirmed.
Hours passed without them noticing.
By evening, the center was ready. Drums arranged. Decorations hung.
They sat at a long table and ate with everyone else.
When they finally left, Lois said, “That felt good.”
Clark glanced at her. “Yeah. It really did.”
They walked home through quiet streets, snow scattered across the sidewalk. By the time they reached the brownstone, Martha was asleep.
Inside, they moved without thinking, coats off, shoes kicked aside, lights low. Clark carried Martha upstairs. Lois cracked the window shade so moonlight spilled across the room, then followed him out.
Downstairs, the brownstone was quiet again.
Lois walked to the basket and pulled out the fifth bag. “You ready?”
Clark kissed her temple. “Always.”
He loosened the string. A wooden donkey figurine slid into his hand.
“The donkey.”
“Silent strength,” Lois said. “Stubborn. Like you.”
He nudged her lightly in protest but kept quiet otherwise.
She unfolded the paper:
Whenever a neighbor needed help, the family was there.
The boy learned early that humility doesn’t mean making yourself small, but taking responsibility, even when no one is watching.
Gratitude and quiet help shaped him deeply.
Clark’s shoulders dropped slightly.
He ran his thumb over the donkey. “That’s exactly what my mom taught me. You help because someone needs it. Not because anyone’s watching.”
She leaned against his shoulder. “You looked happy today.”
“I was.” He kissed her hair. “You too.”
Lois placed the donkey on the mantel with the other pieces. “It’s coming together.”
Clark nodded. “Her story. And ours.”
