Heartbroken, cell phone in hand, I remain sitting on the park bench.
“Sir?” says a man, his stench reaching me before he does.
He extends his hand, palm turned upward. Needle puncture marks dot his forearm.
“Spare a dollar?” His voice is raspy.
I hand him money and he starts to shuffle away.
“Wait,” I say.
He turns around.
“When you were a child, did they love you too little or too much?”
He stands there blinking hard.
Then he says, “I think that the way they loved me was wrong.”