It was a sweltering 97 degrees on June 23, 2011, the kind of day that made San Antonio’s vibrant streets buzz with life. Yet inside the downtown public library, it was cool and serene, the air filled with the smell of books and whispered conversations. There, amidst the all the shelves and flickering fluorescent lights, sat Jennifer, a 33 year old woman who had went through trauma in my past relationship with my husband and the father of my only son being deported to Mexico that no many could rise from.

In my motorized wheelchair, which had a small basket that held her beloved Chihuahua, Snowball. A sea of emotions swirled within me, waves of grief crashing relentlessly against the shore of my heart. Just earlier that day , I had lost my only son, and each moment felt like a reminder of my profound emptiness. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I hoped to see my son coming in the door in front of me, but the tears blurred my vision.

It was in this vulnerable moment that a striking man appeared behind me. He had kind eyes and a gentle touch, the sort that could disarm anyone. The unnamed man asked softly, “Why are you crying?” as he say down so he could see my eyes.

Jennifer hesitated, startled by his sudden appearance. I wasn’t ready to share my pain, yet something about him felt safe. After a...