When my husband and I moved to Vancouver, British Columbia in our early twenties, I was more than a bit green. Growing up in small town Iowa, my experience in cities had been limited to the occasional vacation where we hit all the regular tourist traps: Shedd Aquarium in Chicago, Disney World in Orlando, and Target Field in Minneapolis. But Aaron grew up in Vancouver: a true West Coast native, former inner-city truck driver, and urban landscape-lover who navigated both the Sky Train and the confusing labyrinth of high rises with ease and enviable street smarts.
That first year, he took me downtown to one of his favorite restaurants (Zepherelli’s) for my birthday.
We shopped on Robson Street where I picked out bath bombs at Lush and a cream colored sweater at Roots. Then we popped into a pub for a pint of Sleeman’s Honey Brown (the best beer ever brewed), before slowly making our way to the charming window table reserved for us on the second floor. We were just a block or so from Zepherelli’s when we saw her.
She was a bit younger than me, but I felt like it was impossible not to notice the similarities between us. Pale, blonde, green-eyed. She was sitting against the wall with a cardboard sign propped on her knees: It’s my birthday today. I froze. In the second before she looked up and caught my eye, my mind made some pretty athletic leaps. Here I was (loaded down with bags and presents, on my way to a fancy-ish dinner with the love of my life) and there she was (dirty, disheveled, looking strung out and hungry and sad). Why? What had happened in her life? How long had she been on the streets? Where were her people? We were separated by a few feet and an entire universe, and before I knew it I was on my knees before her.
“It’s my birthday today, too,” I said.
“No way!” She grinned at me, skin pulling taut over her gaunt, hollow face. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three,” I told her.
“I’m nineteen.”
Just four years. She was still a teenager. I wanted to ask her a dozen things, but Aaron’s hand was on my arm. We had a reservation to get to and work tomorrow and a train ride back to our apartment in Surrey. I looked up at him, and as if he was reading my mind, he turned away and grabbed the rest of the cash in his wallet. Twenty bucks or so. Nothing really, but her eyes lit up anyway. We told each other happy birthday, and Aaron and I walked away. I tried very hard not to look over my shoulder.
Elon Musk became a trillionaire last week. I’m not sure that most of us can grasp what that actually means—myself included. But believe it or not, I actually wrote about a trillion (as in, there are a trillion stars in the Andromeda Galaxy) in my November 2025 release, Where He Left Me. Here’s an excerpt:
“The Andromeda Galaxy is the nearest major galaxy to the Milky Way, and guess how many stars it contains?”
“Do I get a prize if I’m right?”
Felix regarded her, considering. “Actually, yes. I do have a prize for you.”
Her eyes widened. “It better be good.”
“It is.”
“Ten billion,” Sadie guessed. Then, seeing his face, amended her answer. “One hundred billion.”
“Not even close.”
“Five hundred billion.”
Felix shook his head. “One trillion,” he said.
“My next guess.”
But Felix had already spun away and started rifling through his desk drawer. “Do you have any idea how much that is? A trillion is one million million. A thousand billion. A one with twelve zeros behind it.”
“Felix, stop.” Sadie laughed again, laying a hand on his arm. “You’re going to break my brain.”
“A stack of a billion dollar bills would be approximately sixty-eight miles high. But a stack of a trillion dollars would reach nearly sixty-eight thousand miles into space.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I swear I’m not. A billion seconds is thirty-two years. A trillion is thirty-two thousand years.”
Where He Left Me, Nicole Baart
I think we need to read that again: “A billion seconds is thirty-two years. A trillion is thirty-two thousand years.”
A couple of months after my birthday, my parents came to visit us in Vancouver. Of course, we took them to all of our favorite haunts: Fleetwood Arms (our local pub), Crescent Beach (the best for beachcombing), and downtown. We enjoyed Canada Place and Gastown and Robson, and at some point we walked past a young woman with blond hair, green eyes, and a sign that said: It’s my birthday today.
“Brian!” my mom said. “We have to give her something!”
My dad handed over some cash, and my mom gave it to the girl. “Happy birthday,” she said. “I hope it’s a good one.”
I didn’t bother to tell my mom that it had been the girl’s birthday in October, too.
Because it didn’t matter.
Because a couple of bucks was probably far less than what we could have and should have done for her.
Because erring on the side of generosity is always, always the right thing to do.
Because maybe the problem isn’t a hungry teenager—it’s the unforgivable greed of men.
Eyes open. Hearts steady. Hands ready.
Thanks for reading. xoxo - Nicole
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