I once met a girl who lost her mother

I met a girl who lost her mother in Syria and her father abandoned her. She left home at 19 to go to college ( or maybe to escape her despondent life, who knows?). She had two sisters, twins, whose destinies were braided together, not in Syria, but in the United States. I met that girl on a bus and much later, in the flow of a conversation, I had asked her with ample hesitation, 

-"So, who do you call your family?"

-"Anyone who takes care of me"

I cannot tell if it was because I wanted to be her family or just my compassion for an ailing friend, but, I took her to my home that night. after the doctor discharged her from the ER. There was nothing fancy at home to offer as food to a guest that night. I had not cooked much that entire month courtesy of my crippling anxiety and depression. Yet, that day I wanted to cook for her. I prepared a simple Bengali meal of bhaat, dal, papad, and fried eggs. I think at some point she told me I can take care of her like her dead mother did. I simply smiled.

My phone chimed with a message from another friend, "Beware of the girl you've brought home. She tries to befriend everyone on the bus and collect their personal information". I have been told that I trust people too easily, so, a part of me was indeed paranoid about being robbed. I was home alone after all. A part of me shrugged in disbelief. I always told people that the eyes are the quickest doorway to catch a glimpse of one's soul. Her eyes told me that she could be anything but harmful.

That night, all she asked was for me to sleep beside her after dinner. I held her close to me to make her feel safe and in the process, I felt surprising tranquility. (Who knew that saviors can also be saved too?). All she extracted that night were head rubs to help her fall asleep and dream of her mother.

We rose early from bed the next morning, ate breakfast, and set out in our separate ways. She- to her home and I-back to work. As she waved from the window of the bus, I smiled but my feet felt tied to the pavement. A knot formed in my throat as the guilt of suspecting a friend overcame me and I berated myself over and over trailing back to known pavements, known aroma of boxed lunches.

But, I once met a girl who lost her mother in Syria and her father abandoned her. She always tried to befriend everyone, on buses, trains, in public halls, and in recreation parks. She was never tired of searching for someone who would care, someone, she can call family.