A Kindness With a Backstory
Outside, I tried to insist on repaying him. He refused—firmly, kindly.
“My mother passed away two months ago. You remind me of her.”
“It makes me feel better to do something good in her memory.”— Michael
Then he offered to drive us home. The tiredness in my legs and the weight of the day made honesty easy: I needed help.
His car was sleek and quiet. To my surprise, he had a child safety seat. He buckled Lily in with practiced care.
“You have kids?”
“Two. My little girl just turned three, and my son is seven.”— Margaret and Michael
During the drive, I told him everything: Sarah leaving, the note, the relentless math of diapers and bills.
When he offered to help more—mentioning a nanny—I refused at first. Pride is complicated when you’re surviving.
