“No, honey.” I smiled at him. “It all works the same, and that one smells like strawberries, which is way better than the stuff we usually get, don’t you think?”
He shrugged.
Every day, I processed insurance claims for patients who had better coverage than I could dream of getting for Joey and me. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I’d been pinching every penny since my ex walked out on us when Joey was two, but it never seemed to be enough.
We were heading to our beat-up Honda when I spotted the elderly homeless woman standing near the cart return.
She wore a threadbare coat, her gray hair was unkempt, and her hands were dirty, but something in her eyes caught my attention. They weren’t desperate or haunted like you might expect. Instead, they were kind; filled with a gentle warmth that made me pause.
“Please,” she called out, her voice trembling. “Can you drive me to St. Mary’s Church? I need to get there.”
Joey pressed closer to my side as the woman approached. I instinctively tightened my grip on my purse, mentally calculating the cost of the drive. St. Mary’s was clear across town, a good 20-minute drive, and gas wasn’t cheap these days.
“I’m sorry…” I started to say, but then I saw the tears welling up in her eyes.
“Please,” she whispered, and something inside me cracked.
I looked down at my son, then back at the woman. The desperation in her voice touched a place in my heart I couldn’t ignore.
I sighed. “Alright, get in.”
“Thank you, thank you so much,” she repeated, climbing into the backseat.
During the drive, she kept thanking me over and over. I tried to brush it off, telling her it was no big deal, because what else could I say? She was probably headed there to find shelter or pray and helping her felt right.When we pulled up to St. Mary’s, she practically jumped out of the car, mumbling one last thank you before disappearing through the heavy wooden doors. Joey and I watched her go, both of us quiet.
Continue reading…
