Therapy Bits

The gymnasium smelled faintly of varnish and coffee. Long tables, draped in lavender cloths, held silent-auction baskets and stacks of pamphlets stamped with the shelter’s name: Harbor House. A stage at the far end gleamed with fairy lights, as though insisting that something brighter could grow from the shadows.

Claire stood behind the refreshment table, smoothing a curl back into place, trying not to remember the last time she’d stood in a room full of strangers. Back then, her ribs had still been tender, her voice uncertain. Tonight, though, she wore a name badge that said Volunteer.

Across the room, her daughter giggled, folded into the safe arms of other children who were piling cupcakes into pink napkins. Claire felt her throat tighten. Two years ago, she’d walked barefoot into Harbor House with nothing but that little girl and a bruised silence. The shelter had given her socks, tea, and—eventually—words.

Now, the mayor was stepping up to the microphone. “Every dollar raised tonight,” she declared, “keeps our doors open. Keeps women safe.” Applause scattered across the hall. Some clapped politely, others fiercely, as if they were applauding their own survival.

An older woman, hair silver and neatly pinned, slipped a twenty into the donation jar and smiled at Claire. “Thank you for being here.”

Claire opened her mouth to deflect, to say she was only pouring coffee, but the words shifted. “Thank you,” she said, realizing it was true—for every person who bought a raffle ticket or dropped a bill into the jar, the shelter breathed a little easier.

As the night unfolded—auction bids scribbled, a local band playing soft folk songs—Claire found herself watching not just the donors but the women clustered at the edges, hands linked, faces lifted toward something like hope. Some were new, coats buttoned high, eyes scanning for exits. Others stood taller, voices freer, proof that healing was possible.

When the total was announced—more than they had dared hope—the room erupted. Claire clapped until her palms stung. She caught her daughter’s eye across the room, the girl’s frosting-smeared grin wide as sunrise.

For the first time, Claire didn’t just feel like a guest in safety. She felt like part of its foundation, helping to build a future where no woman had to knock on the shelter door in fear.

The lights glowed warmer. The music swelled. And Claire believed.

Shelter – Word of the Day Challenge