I often have lunch at a café opposite the office — a simple place, nothing special, but they serve tasty and quick food. If I have some time left after eating, I go to the park across the street. It’s quiet there, and my favorite bench is almost always free. I just sit and watch the passersby.
One day, I noticed a girl. Small, about ten years old, no more. She came every day at roughly the same time — right after school lunches, judging by her uniform. She sat on a bench nearby, took out her backpack, placed it beside her… and after a couple of minutes, she fell asleep sitting up. Not lying down, not covered up, just like that — straight-backed and with her eyes closed.
She slept for about ten to fifteen minutes, then got up, grabbed her backpack — and disappeared. This repeated day after day. Thin, with tightly braided pigtails, always in clean clothes. No phones, no toys — she just came and slept. I didn’t interfere, but with each day I felt more and more worried. There was something strange about it.
One day, I couldn’t resist anymore and decided to talk to the girl, and I found out something very sad about her 
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I approached carefully when she had just woken up and quietly asked:
— Excuse me, do you mind if I ask you something? Why do you sleep here every day? Can’t you sleep at home?
She looked at me calmly, like an adult, and after a short pause quietly said:
— I recently got a little sister. Mom is very tired. Dad is not here. She hardly sleeps. I try to help. When my little sister cries at night, I get up, take her in my arms, rock her so mom can get a little sleep.
In the morning school, then homework, and I still have to help around the house. I don’t want mom to know that I’m tired. But here I can get some sleep. Nobody sees.
I didn’t know what to say. A lump in my throat, goosebumps. This girl — just a child — carried a burden that not many adults could bear. And yet, no complaints, no self-pity — only care for her mother.
Since then, I bring her hot cocoa and a bun. We don’t talk about it. We just sit together on the bench. And then we go on.
It turns out sometimes the strongest people are the smallest.
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