It’s been hotter than a sidewalk hot dog cart in mid-July New York. The kind of heat that turns your eyebrows into tiny sweat dams and makes you question your life choices. Like why you didn’t just move to Iceland during the pandemic like you half-joked.

So there we were, my son and I, walking through that soupy morning air, where even the pigeons looked like they’d given up. It wasn’t supposed to rain, but of course, the weather in New York doesn’t check in with me. First, it was mist. Then, little droplets. And, then came the rain. Not dramatic, not cinematic. Just wet enough to disrupt.

Naturally, I started fishing around in my bag like a determined raccoon on a scavenger hunt in my backyard, hunting for my umbrella. Which, let’s be honest, may or may not have even been in there. (My tote bag is a Mary Poppins-meets-apocalypse kit situation.)

And then something quietly beautiful happened.

Without a word, my son reached into his backpack, took out his umbrella, opened it, and placed it over me. Not over him. Over me. He just did it. No drama. No “look at me being chivalrous.” No hesitation. Just a gentle, instinctual act of love and care.

I was floored. Not because I doubt he’s a kind kid. He is. But because in that one tiny gesture, without words, he told me everything I needed to know that morning. He was alright. I was alright. We were alright.

In that early-morning drizzle, while the sky decided to emote and the city hadn’t yet caffeinated, I got my emotional espresso shot: confirmation that we’d done something right. That sweetness and thoughtfulness still existed in my son, in our dynamic, in this gritty city.

And yes, that day turned out to be long and trying and full of the usual plot twists that come with life, city walking, work fires, and the odd email marked “urgent” that never should be.

But I carried that umbrella moment with me. A tiny shelter of kindness. Proof that love shows up in small gestures. And a reminder that even in the rain, we’re covered.