In university I had a part-time job at a shop that sold doughnuts and coffee. Situated on a block where several buses stopped, it served the people who had a few minutes to wait for their bus.
Every afternoon around four o'clock, a group of schoolchildren would burst into the shop, and business would come to a stop. Adults would glance in, see the crowd and pass on. But I didn't mind if the children waited for their bus inside. Sometimes I would hand out a bus fare when a ticket went missing — always repaid the next day. On snowy days I would give away some doughnuts. I would lock the door at closing time, and we waited in the warm shop until their bus finally arrived.
I enjoyed my young friends, but it never occurred to me that I played an important role in their lives — until one afternoon when a man came and asked if I was the girl working on weekdays around four o'clock. He identified himself as the father of two of my favorites.
"I want you to know I appreciate what you do for my children. I worry about them taking two buses to get home. It means a lot that they can wait here and you keep an eye on them. When they are with the doughnut lady, I know they are safe." I told him it wasn't a big deal, and that I enjoyed the kids.
So I was the Doughnut Lady. I not only received a title, but became a landmark.
Now I think about all the people who keep an eye on my own children. They become, well, Doughnut Ladies. Like the men at the skating rink (滑冰场) who let my boys ring home; Or the bus driver who drove my daughter to her stop at the end of the route at night but wouldn't leave until I arrived to pick her up; Or that nice police officer who took pity on my boys walking home in the rain when I was at work — even though the phone rang all the next day with calls from curious neighbors. "Was that a police car I saw at your house last night?"
That wasn't a police car. That was a Doughnut Lady.
