Short story 2:

They flop and shuffle over to me at my big desk from the prenatal bed, my back to them in a posture of superiority--aloof. I check their dates, make sure everything adds up, and then, inwardly die a little on their behalf as I ask "Meron donasyon?" Do you have a donation?
Donations are made towards the cost of delivery at the clinic. It's minimal; about CND$12 per delivery including suturing. But at each visit we ask if they'd like to make a donation; a contribution to their delivery fees. This isn't an easy task. That's why they're here in the first place. Because we're a charity.
I usually make eye contact and smile, trying to say 'It's ok...' with my face. But sometimes, rarely, I can't. I don't know who I'm protecting: myself from feeling horrible for them, or them from seeing how badly I feel for them.
They say "Meron", I have, and hand me a soft, warm, sticky, crumpled bill--but I can't always tell how much it is at first because the balled up bill is slid into my hand, or directly into the donations box and the amount murmured is too quiet and accented to understand at first.
"Twenty pesos?" I ask. That's no more than CND $.45. "Magcano?" How much? I ask. Because you can't always be sure they don't want change from 20 pesos.
"Ten, po." So I smooth out the 20 a bit before I put it in the box and then I fish out two 5 peso coins. "Sigi." I say, which is a broad expression for 'Ok, we're finished' or 'Alright then.'
And out they flop and shuffle, waddling to various degrees, stuffing their change into their change purses. That money will go to pay for the tricy ride home, or perhaps a jeepney and lunch. Nothing nutritious, of course. Rice and coke most likely. And I sigh, and wonder what the heck I'm supposed to do, because we were taught how to handle a lot of things in midwifery school, but not how to handle this; this gluttonous beast called poverty.