“My Husband’s Mistress Threw Me Out on the Street. I’m Blind and Have a Six‑Month‑Old Baby. So I Began to Knit…”

It all started the day I heard a woman’s voice inside my own house —
a voice that wasn’t mine.

“Who are you?” she asked, her tone sharp, almost offended.

I was sitting on the couch, feeding my six‑month‑old baby.
My hands knew every curve of his tiny face, every soft curl of his hair.

“I’m… I’m Carlos’s wife,” I said, confused. “And you are?”

There was silence. Then hurried footsteps. A door opening.
Carlos’s voice, trembling:

“Andrea, what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing?” she shouted. “Carlos! Are you going to tell me she still lives here?”

I froze. The puzzle pieces fell into place — the late arrivals, the strange perfume, the excuses.

“You have to leave,” Carlos finally said, in a voice I didn’t recognize.

“Leave? But… this is my house. It’s our son’s home.”

“Not anymore,” Andrea said coldly. “This is my home now. I live here.”

Before I could process what was happening, I was standing on the street —
my baby in my arms, a walking stick in one hand, and a small backpack on my shoulder.
I turned a corner, then another. Soon, I didn’t even know where I was.

My mother lived across town. I had no money for a taxi. My phone was still inside the house.

I sat down in what felt like the entrance of a closed shop.
My baby started crying.

“Shh, my love… shh,” I whispered, rocking him gently.

I searched my backpack. My fingers found the only thing I’d managed to grab before leaving:
a half‑finished scarf, bamboo needles, and three balls of wool.

“Well,” I thought, “at least I can keep my hands busy while I figure out what to do.”

So I began to knit.
The rhythmic motion calmed me. My hands didn’t need eyes for this.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a man’s voice said after a while. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, thank you. Just… resting a moment.”

“That scarf looks beautiful. My mom used to crochet like that.”

“Thank you,” I smiled.

“Do you sell your knitting?”

I hadn’t thought about it.

“Well… I suppose I could.”

“How much for that scarf?”

“Five thousand?” I said, naming the first number that came to mind.

“I’ll take two. One for my mom, one for my sister.”

In two hours, I’d finished two scarves and had ten thousand pesos in my pocket.
My baby was asleep, breathing softly against my chest.

“What are you doing out here, dear?”
The voice of an elderly woman startled me.

“I’m… a little lost,” I admitted.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She sighed. “This is 68th and Caracas. Where are you headed?”

When I told her my story, she clucked her tongue.

“That scoundrel. Listen, I own the clothing shop next door. Why don’t you sell your knits outside my store? I’ll lend you a chair, and you can use the bathroom if you need to change the baby.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, ma’am.”

“Name’s Marta,” she said firmly. “And don’t thank me for anything. Us women have to help each other.”

That’s how I spent the next week.
Knitting hats, scarves, gloves.
People stopped, asked questions, bought things.
Maybe some did it out of pity at first, but they kept coming back — because my work was good.

“It’s freezing,” one man said. “And your hands make magic. That’s the perfect combo.”

My son became everyone’s favorite baby.
Mrs. Marta bought him diapers.
Don Raúl from the grocery store brought milk.
The lady at the pie stand fed me lunch.

“That baby’s smile could melt the sun,” she always said.

Then, one day, I heard a familiar voice.

“Lucía?”

It was my sister. She’d been searching all over the city.

“Oh my God! Mom’s been worried sick! Why didn’t you call?”

“I didn’t have a phone. It’s still… in the house.”

“Come on. Let’s go to Mom’s.”

“Wait,” I said softly. “I need to say goodbye.”

Mrs. Marta cried.
Don Raúl handed me a bag full of supplies.
And my regular customers pressed little slips of paper into my hands.

“Tell us where you’ll be,” said the man who bought my first scarves. “We’ll find you.”

Now I live with my mother.
I filed a case against Carlos.
But I also built something better: my own business.

My sister helps me sell online, and twice a week I return to that same corner —
because that’s where everything began.

The place where I thought I’d lost everything… turned out to be where I found myself.

I found kindness.
I found community.
And I found proof that my hands — though my eyes can’t see — can build an entire world.

“Mom, do you weave?” my little boy asks now, two years old and full of chatter.

“Yes, my love,” I tell him, smiling. “Mommy weaves.”

“And me?”

“You’ll learn too. I’ll teach you how to weave stories, dreams, and your own path.”

Because that’s what we are now — weavers of our own lives.
And no one, ever again, will throw us out on the street.