One large "Harry Potter" latte, iced, extra shot, no whipped cream. 

It's the same thing every time. 

I watch her get out of her car to come into the coffee shop. Any second now she'll open the door, setting off the bell. Then I'll look at her, say her order out loud to make sure she still wants it, she'll laugh, pay for her drink, then she'll either rant about work or gush about her seven-year-old son. Sure enough, it played out exactly like that. 

It's so familiar. She is, I mean. I listen to her as I make her drink. Today's subject is... her son. 

Of course. 

I can see it. This is a mother who loves her son but doesn't always have time for him because she's trying her best to provide for them both. She thinks highly of him. I know that for a fact. She even brought him by one day so that I could meet him, so I could see how he melts everybody's heart. 

I've seen this before. I've seen it in my own mother and brother. I want to help these boys. I want to help their mothers. I want to give them more time together and I want to watch the boys grow up knowing that they were loved. But I can't always help in the way that I want. So instead, I hand the women her drink, tell her to have a good day and that I look forward to seeing her son again sometime. I watch her get back in her car as I clean up my mess and I smile sadly to myself. 

I wish that I could do more to help people. 

Maybe one day I will.