“Why is that man sleeping on the street?”: That silence where you suddenly feel very small

The question we ask ourselves

It was last Tuesday, just before arriving at school. An ordinary morning, with a backpack slipping off a shoulder, the lingering scent of coffee, and the rush to be on time. And then, on the street corner, there was a man settled on a makeshift mattress, surrounded by a few bags.

My son stopped dead in his tracks. He pointed his finger, without any malice, with that raw curiosity characteristic of five-year-olds, and blurted out: “Mom, why is that man sleeping on the ground? Doesn't he have a house?”

In that moment, time froze. I felt that familiar lump forming in my throat. It wasn't annoyance; it was an awkward silence, almost heavy. A silence that said: “I don't know what to tell you without breaking something inside you, or without confronting my own helplessness.”

We often wonder how to explain the inexplicable. We feel invested with the mission of being a guide, the one who holds the map of the world, and suddenly, we realize we are missing entire pages.

What we think we know (and why it’s more nuanced)

We often have the reflex to think that being a “good parent” means having a ready-made answer for every inquiry. We imagine we must be a sort of moral and factual encyclopedia. So, when we draw a blank, we feel like we've failed. We fear that our silence will be interpreted as indifference or, worse, as ignorance.

On one hand, we are tempted by the technical answer: “It’s complicated, it’s because of the economy, unemployment...” But we can feel that it’s too cold, too far removed from the look in their eyes. On the other hand, we want to protect their innocence with a quick fix: “Don't worry, he'll find a solution.” But we know that's a lie, and the child, with their sincerity radar, feels it too.

The reality is that this silence isn't a lack of knowledge. It’s the collision between the simplicity of childhood—where every problem has a logical solution—and the absurd complexity of the adult world. If we don't answer right away, it’s not because we don't know; it’s because we realize the truth is unfair, and we aren't ready to tell them that the world isn't always just.

What it really means

This silence is actually a moment of shared vulnerability. When my son asked me that question, he wasn't looking for a sociology lecture. He was looking to see how I, his pillar of strength, positioned myself in the face of what he was seeing.

Not having the answer means accepting in front of them that we adults, too, are sometimes struck by doubt, sadness, or lack of understanding. It means we don't control everything. It’s unsettling because it chips away at the image of the omniscient parent, but it is also deeply human.

A child doesn't judge us because we stumble over our words. They observe how we react to the unexpected. That awkward silence is a sign that the question touched us. It’s proof that we haven't become cynical or indifferent. It’s an emotion searching for its way into words.

How to reflect on it

Rather than searching for the “perfect sentence” to close the subject, perhaps we can see these moments as open doors.

Instead of asking ourselves, “What should I say?”, we could ask, “What am I feeling right now?”. Sometimes, simply saying, “That’s a very difficult question, and it makes me a little sad that I don't have a simple answer to give you,” is an answer in itself. It validates the child's emotion while being honest about our own.

We can also think about how we leave room for the imagination to process these heavy topics. This is why, at Alba Time, we love the idea that stories aren't there to give lectures, but to explore worlds and situations. Sometimes, a personalized story allows us to use indirect words for complex realities, without the pressure of the “absolute truth.”

There is no manual for explaining poverty, illness, or injustice to a five-year-old. There are just two beings walking on a sidewalk, one discovering the world and the other trying to remember when they, too, found all of this abnormal.

This silence is not a failure. It’s just a sign that we are experiencing something real, together. And in the end, that is perhaps what matters most.