Margaux looked up and saw a woman in her mid-thirties with warm brown eyes and a soft, unassuming smile. She wore simple jeans and a faded jacket, nothing flashy, but kindness stood out on her the way sunlight does on water.
“I couldn’t possibly,” Margaux said, even though her shoulders felt like they were on fire.
“Two blocks,” Margaux said, surprised by how quickly relief can soften pride. “Maple Street. Brick building. Second floor.”
They walked together. The younger woman chatted lightly—about the weather, about a pothole that never got fixed, about how the neighborhood changed every year. When they reached Margaux’s building, she carried the bags up the stairs without complaint and set them on the kitchen counter as if she’d done it a hundred times.
Margaux stood there, touched in a way she wasn’t prepared for. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re a good person. Your parents must be proud.”
The woman’s smile flickered. Just for a moment, something deeper moved behind her eyes. Continue reading…
