“You paid for our groceries when we had nothing. I still cry thinking about it. We’re back on our feet now, and my husband and I just want to say thank you—for your courage and love for mi familia.”
I sat there, stunned.
“My mamá said you are why I want to help people now. I hope I can find you again before I leave.”
Leave where?
I flipped the envelope and found a small, worn photo tucked behind the flap. A little girl, maybe seven or eight, clutching a teddy bear. Behind her: a hospital bed.
My heart clenched.
Was this their daughter? Was she sick?
The next day, I couldn’t shake the image. I drove to the grocery store where it had happened, hoping someone remembered.
Someone did.
Leona, the cashier, nodded slowly. “Yeah, I remember them. Sweet couple. Their daughter… Sofia, I think. She had a rare blood disorder. They were always in and out of the hospital.”
“They moved. Somewhere in the city. Some clinic was helping them. That’s all I know.”
That night, I sat at my kitchen table with the letter, the photo, and the twenty-dollar bill. I couldn’t keep it—not for myself.
So I bought a children’s book about kindness, tucked the bill and a note inside:
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