Life began to settle into a rhythm. She worked hard, studied at night, and still helped around the house. One weekend, she insisted on buying groceries with her own money. Watching her swipe her debit card felt like watching someone climb a mountain.
I shook my head. “You’re family. I don’t charge family.”
She insisted until we settled on her covering the water bill. It was a small step, but she carried it like a victory.
Then one afternoon, while going through old boxes in the attic, I stumbled across an envelope in my late husband’s handwriting: For when we’re gone.
Inside was a letter and a check for $15,000.
His note read: If you’re reading this, I hope it’s because you found someone worth investing in. Use this to help someone who needs a leg up—the way someone once helped us.
I sat there, stunned, remembering the kind woman who had once let us live in her garage apartment for almost nothing. She had told us to use the gift to build a life. My husband and I had always promised we’d pay it forward.
That evening, I handed the envelope to her.
She looked at me, confused. “What’s this?”
Her hands trembled as she read the letter. “Are you serious?”
I nodded. “My husband would have loved you.”
