Friday at IKEA

October 12, 2018, a Friday evening, at IKEA.

My bonus check from the film set had come through, and I needed to start getting my first apartment in Atlanta ready. I had not planned on an apartment and therefore had not planned on having to purchase all of the necessary furnishings. I had been in Atlanta for nearly a year and my husband and dogs did not follow me as I was setting us up with a new life. I was on my own now. Like it or not.

I had no choice. I needed everything. Pots. Pans. Dishes. Towels. A bed. A mattress. A couch. Furniture for a life that no longer existed, and for one that hadn’t fully formed yet.

I had no energy left. I was emotionally hollow. And I was painfully aware that no forty-something ends up alone at IKEA on a Friday night with a two-page shopping list because things are going well.

I carefully loaded two large carts with my entire future. Furniture boxes on one. Mattress on the other. Slung over my shoulder a blue bag filled with other essentials. I pushed one cart forward, then jogged back to inch the second along, repeating the process over and over as I made my way toward checkout.

The line was long. Everyone was irritated. It was late. Everyone was waiting for the weekend to start. We all had this one last task. Tension hung in the air.

As I finally reached the front, two women stepped directly in front of me. I told them, calmly at first, that the line started in the back and that we had all been waiting.

They laughed. Called out some flippant “Happy Friday, y’all!” to the crowd. And stayed put.

I said it again.

They told me to relax.

Someone else finally intervened and told them they needed to go to the back of the line. They did. But by then, it was too late. I couldn’t rein it in.

Those two carts weren’t just carts. They were proof of what I was doing. Starting over. Alone. Carrying an entire life myself.

The weight of it all hit me at once, and I started crying. Not politely. Not quietly. Crying in line, surrounded by strangers, with everything I owned stacked in front of me.

And then something unexpected happened.

The woman in front of me, who didn’t speak English, turned to her young daughter and gently told her to stand with me. To help me manage the carts.

She saw me.

She didn’t need language to understand what was happening. No one cries at IKEA with two carts full of household goods unless something has gone very wrong. She recognized another woman in distress. Another woman rebuilding.

The little girl stayed by my side as I moved through the checkout. Her parents didn’t rush me. They waited until I had things under control. Until the carts were manageable. Until I could breathe again.

When it was over, I hugged the woman.

“Muchas gracias,” I said, pressing my hand to my chest because words still felt inadequate.

She nodded and smiled, empathetic and certain. She understood.

A stranger saw me when I desperately needed to be seen.

I will never forget that moment. And I will always look for others the way she looked for me.