It came with no return address. Just my name, written neatly on the front of the envelope in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
Inside was a folded note and a twenty-dollar bill, held in place with a single strip of clear tape.
And honestly, I didn’t. Not at first.
But as I kept reading, it started coming back in pieces—an exhausted couple at the checkout line, their card getting declined, the baby crying in the cart. I remembered the cashier rolling her eyes. I remembered how fast I pulled out my debit card, how I muttered “It’s fine, just let them go” and then forgot all about it by the time I got to my car.Apparently, they didn’t.
“You paid for our groceries in a crowded supermarket. It makes me almost cry to think about it. We are back on our feet, and my husband and I want to say thank you for your courage and love for mi familia.”
I just stared at it, stunned.But then—just before the signature—I saw something strange.
The handwriting at the bottom didn’t match the top. It was from a child.
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