A couple of weekends ago, Mrs. Dude and I took a few days off to wander down the lovely and violent hills of the central California coast. Ultimate destination? Disneyland, of course.

As it had been far longer than usual in-between visits — we ain’t rich, and economic struggles are a constant reality in my corner of the world — the visit was especially anticipated. Naturally, come time to pack up the car and head on down El Camino Real I was sick with the viral bronchitis that beset me for three weeks, and only now is subsiding courtesy of antibiotics. (Note to self: next time, don’t be so stubborn about going to the doctor.)

Anyway, the Saturday morning of the vacation I was sitting in the hotel lobby across from the elevators. Mrs. Dude was at a Disney event with friends, so I had a few hours to kill. Which, not feeling like doing much, was going to be spent as quietly as possible. Normally, this would be no big deal. However, given how long it had been since I’d been at the Mouse House, I was none too pleased about being less than my usual top billing.

As I sat there, gathering resolve to at the least get around a bit, I noticed a younger side of middle-age mom in front of me. The mom part was easy to deduce, given that a child somewhere in the five to seven-year old range was clinging to her with a grip the Jaws of Life would have a hard time breaking. Nothing unusual there.

What was unusual was that the little girl had a look of utter desolation on her face, one far beyond “but I really want that toy, Mommy.” It was one of the saddest faces I had seen in a long time. And in the Happiest Place on Earth, no less.

Then the mom glanced over and saw my Mickey Mouse watch. She next looked down at her daughter, still locked in a faraway, fallen stare.

Mom started talking.

“Do you see that man’s Mickey Mouse watch?”

Okay, no big, it happens.

“It’s just like the one your daddy used to wear.”

Uh-oh.

The mom continued, talking about how Daddy loved Disney and her and the like. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes-like deduction to figure out this one.

Daddy wasn’t here any more.

And I don’t mean he and Mom split up, either.

The Spirit stirred. I stood up, walked over, put my arm around the woman and smiled a little as I softly said, “Looks like Mom could use a hug, too.”

She said, equally softly, “Thank you.” I saw gratitude in her eyes, but didn’t want to look too long for fear of waterworks taking hold.

I next bent down to the daughter’s level, trying to get her to look at me as I made a few kid-friendly comments and such. Alas, she would have none of it. I did feel appreciation from her mom for the effort. Hopefully later on it provided a lift.

And I no longer minded not feeling all that great. Had I been up to snuff, I wouldn’t have been there at that time. But I wasn’t. So I was.

I’m thankful for that.