The day strangers forced me and my crying baby out of a pharmacy, I felt smaller than ever. But just when the world seemed at its coldest, a man in a unicorn onesie walked in, and my life took an unexpected turn.
I was cradling my baby, Freya, in the corner of a pharmacy, trying to soothe her while silently urging the pharmacist to hurry. We’d been waiting nearly an hour for the reflux drops her pediatrician prescribed that morning. Every few minutes, I’d ask if they were ready, only to hear the same curt reply: “Still processing.”
Outside, rain streaked the windows, a dreary drizzle that chilled to the bone. Inside, the air reeked of antiseptic and frustration. My arms ached from holding Freya, my body heavy from another sleepless night.
“Almost there, sweet girl,” I whispered, rocking her gently. “Just a bit longer.”
She whimpered, rubbing her tiny fist against her cheek. I rummaged through the diaper bag for her bottle, hoping it would calm her, but she was beyond tired—teetering on that fragile edge where everything feels wrong.
People in line started staring, their glares sharp. I forced a light tone. “I know, baby, Mommy’s tired too.”
But I was barely holding on.
Sometimes, in moments like this, my mind drifts to how it all began. Two years ago, I thought I had life figured out. I was dating Malcolm, a man I met at a friend’s picnic. His easy charm made me think, He’s different.
For a while, it felt true. We talked about travel, kids, a house by the coast. He’d hold my hand and say, “You’re my future, Imogen.”
I believed him.
Then I got pregnant. When I told him, his face went blank. He said he needed “time to think.” The next day, his phone was off. By week’s end, his apartment was empty, save for a note: “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
That was it. No goodbye. Just me and the tiny heartbeat inside.
I’ve learned to keep going—juggling part-time work and midnight feedings, memorizing formula brands, surviving on three hours of sleep. But nothing prepared me for the loneliness. Especially now.
“Ma’am,” the pharmacist snapped, pulling me back. Her white coat was crisp, her expression cold. “You’re blocking the pickup line.”
“Sorry,” I stammered, nudging the stroller aside. “She’s not feeling well, and I’m waiting for—”
A woman in line cut me off. “Some of us have actual problems. Maybe don’t bring your kid to a pharmacy like it’s a playground.”
Her words stung. My cheeks burned. “I didn’t have anyone to watch her,” I mumbled.
Another voice chimed in. “Then maybe stay home if you can’t manage.”
Freya’s whimpers turned to sobs, echoing off the tiles. The sound drew more glares and whispers.
Then the loudest voice yet: a woman at the counter, arms crossed. “Take that baby outside. That noise is unbearable.”
I froze, torn between defending myself and wanting to vanish. Freya cried harder.
Surrounded by strangers’ scorn, I felt utterly alone—until Freya’s tears slowed. Her eyes widened, fixed on something behind me.
I turned. A tall man in a pastel-blue unicorn onesie, complete with ears and a golden horn, strolled through the automatic doors, holding a grocery bag. His expression was serene, like he wore this daily.
The pharmacy went silent. Even the rude woman paused mid-glare.
The man’s gaze landed on Freya, who’d gone quiet, her sobs turning to curious gasps. Then, she giggled—a soft, magical sound I’d been trying to coax for an hour.
He smiled and walked toward us.
The rude woman muttered, “What in the world…?”
Before I could process, he stopped by the stroller and said loudly, “Why are you harassing my wife?”
The room froze.
My jaw dropped. “Your—what?”
He faced the woman, eyebrow raised. “Did you just yell at a mom with a sick baby? Want to step outside and explain, or apologize here?”
She stammered, “I—I didn’t know—”
“Didn’t know babies cry? Or that moms need medicine? You new to humanity?” he said, calm but cutting.
Snickers rippled through the line. Someone muttered, “He’s right.”
The woman’s face reddened. She grabbed her purse and stormed out, the door’s bells jangling.
He turned to me, and I saw him clearly—shaggy brown hair, warm eyes, a dimple when he smiled. He crouched by Freya. “Hey, little unicorn. Feeling better?”
Freya giggled, reaching for his horn.
I blinked. “Who are you?”
“I’m Finnick,” he grinned, hood still up. “Live nearby. Saw the scene from the parking lot and thought a baby might prefer something silly over mean strangers.”
“So you just… had a unicorn onesie?”
He laughed. “My nephew left it in my car after a costume party. Was gonna donate it, but thought, why not use it to battle pharmacy bullies?”
I laughed—a real, deep laugh that surprised me. I hadn’t done that in months.
The pharmacist cleared her throat. “Ma’am, your prescription’s ready.”
“Of course it is,” I muttered, grabbing the bag.
Finnick stood. “Need help with your stuff?”
“You’ve done enough,” I said.
He shrugged. “I’m all about grand exits. Let me help you to your car.”
Outside, the rain had softened. Finnick held his unicorn hood over the stroller to keep Freya dry. She giggled, enchanted.
“See?” he said. “Babies love whimsy.”
I smiled. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
“Yeah, I did,” he said. “No one should feel small for being human, especially a mom doing her best.”
He handed me the bag and walked off with a mock salute. “Take care, Imogen.”
I froze. “How do you know my name?”
He pointed at the bag. “They said it at the counter. Plus, unicorns are observant.” He winked and was gone.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. His goofy smile, his defense—it made me feel safe, a feeling I’d almost forgotten.
I told myself to let it go. He was just a kind stranger. Life wasn’t a fairy tale.
But life had other plans.
Days later, a knock came at my apartment. Through the peephole, I saw Finnick, sans onesie, holding a giant stuffed unicorn.
“Hi,” he said, sheepish. “Wasn’t sure you’d want to see me, but thought Freya might like this.”
Freya squealed, grabbing for the toy. I smiled. “You didn’t have to.”
“Wanted to,” he said. “Unicorns stick together.”
It became our joke.
Finnick started dropping by—groceries when I was too tired, check-ins on Freya. When my faucet broke, he fixed it, refusing payment. “Unicorns don’t charge family,” he grinned.
Letting someone in felt strange, but Finnick never pushed. He was just there, steady and real.
We’d talk after Freya slept—about work, childhood, fears. He’d been laid off in the pandemic, now freelancing as a handyman. I shared my nights crying, scared I wasn’t enough for Freya.
“You’re more than enough,” he said softly. “You’re her everything.”
Something in me opened.
Freya learned to walk, then talk, shouting “Uni-corn!” when Finnick arrived. He’d spin her around, saying, “Best greeting ever.”
By Freya’s second birthday, Finnick wasn’t just the guy who saved us. He was ours.
He proposed one Sunday while we made pancakes. No fanfare, just a simple ring by Freya’s plate. “I already feel like family,” he said. “Let’s make it real.”
I cried, then laughed as Freya clapped, yelling, “Yay, unicorn!”
We married at city hall, Freya as our flower girl, clutching her stuffed unicorn. Afterward, Finnick whispered, “Remember the pharmacy?”
“How could I forget?” I smiled.
“Guess magic happens in the weirdest places,” he said.
Now, when Freya’s sick or sad, Finnick dons that onesie and dances until she giggles. Sometimes, I laugh so hard I cry, because that silly man gave us what I thought we’d lost: a home, a family, and proof that love can start with the most unexpected moment.
