My hands shook as I picked it up. I stared at the simple words, neat and deliberate. The laundromat was empty. Whoever “J” was, they were gone.
I sat back down, holding the note, reading it over and over. The words were simple, but they hit me harder than anything in months. Someone saw my struggle and quietly helped.
“There are still kind people in this world,” she whispered.
I stuck the note to the fridge with a sunflower magnet. Every glance reminded me someone cared.
A week later, after a brutal double shift, I found a wicker basket outside our door. Inside: groceries, baby food, oatmeal, bananas, crackers. Another note, same handwriting:
“You’re doing great. Keep going. — J.”
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