I watched him struggle with the numbers and saw how his shoulders sagged when he talked about Sienna’s progress. He never asked me for money directly, but his stress filled our home like a heavy cloud. “Don’t worry about the cost,” I said one evening, reaching across the table to hold his hand.
“We’ll sort it out together. Sienna needs this.”
Thank you for helping.”
So I started sending money to his account every month. First $5,000, then $7,000, and then $10,000 as Sienna’s needs seemed to grow. I emptied my savings and used the inheritance my grandma left me.
“The doctor says she’s improving,” Reginald would say after each session. “But she needs more intense therapy. There’s this new treatment that could really help, but it’s expensive.”
“Don’t worry.
We’ll manage. I’m here… for her,” I’d reply. By the end of the year, I’d given him $85,000.
My dream of opening a bakery faded with each transfer, but I told myself nothing was more important than helping a child walk again. “How’s she doing? I’d love to talk to her,” I said during a quick meeting at the park one day.
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