It came without a return address—just my name, written in delicate cursive on a plain envelope. The handwriting didn’t ring a bell.
Inside: a folded note and a twenty-dollar bill, taped down with a single strip of clear tape.
The letter began:
“Miss Emily, You may not remember us…”
And truthfully? I didn’t. Not right away.
But as I read, the memory stirred—first faint, then vivid. A family at the grocery store. A weary mother and father. A baby fussing in the cart. The sound of their card being declined. The cashier’s impatient sigh. And me, instinctively reaching for my debit card.
I had said, “It’s fine. Just let them go.”
A moment. Nothing more.
But to them, it was everything.
“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.
Then I noticed something else. Beneath the mother’s handwriting was a second line—written in a child’s hand:
“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.
see continuation on next page
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