“She’s a wonderful student,” the teacher said with a thoughtful frown. “Always kind. Always tries her best. But she’s been more withdrawn lately. She said she’s been taking care of her grandfather after school.”
“Her grandfather?”
Mrs. Reynolds nodded. “She lives with him. Her mother passed a few years ago. There’s no record of a father. Social services checked in for a while, but… I think things fell quiet.”
Andrew hesitated. “Does she get free lunches?”
“She declined,” Mrs. Reynolds said softly. “Told me she didn’t want to take food away from other kids who needed it more.”
Andrew felt something twist in his chest. Pride and poverty didn’t often coexist—but in Alice, they did.
That afternoon, he filled out a welfare visit request. Officially, he was doing his job. Unofficially, his heart had already decided.
Two days later, he drove to the little gray house.
When the door opened, the same man stood there—older up close, skin thin and eyes kind but weary.
“Mr. Turner?” Andrew asked gently. “I’m Andrew Carter, principal at Maplewood Elementary. I wanted to check in about Alice.”
George Turner’s lips trembled into a smile. “You’d better come in.”
Inside, the house was tidy but sparse. The air carried a faint scent of old wood and medicine. A portable heater hummed near a threadbare couch. On a small table sat a tower of unpaid bills and prescription bottles.
“I’m Alice’s grandfather,” George said, lowering himself into a recliner connected to a quiet oxygen machine. “She’s my little angel. Keeps me going.”
Andrew nodded, his throat tightening. “She’s a remarkable girl.”
George sighed, his voice thin. “I try to provide for her, but the pension barely covers the basics. By the end of the month, there’s not much left for groceries. She started saving bits from school lunch. Says it’s her way of helping.”
He looked ashamed as he spoke, and Andrew felt his chest ache.
“She shouldn’t have to do that,” Andrew said softly.
George nodded. “I know. But she insists. Says her mom used to tell her, ‘When things are hard, love harder.’”
That night, Andrew couldn’t sleep. He lay awake, picturing a little girl wrapping sandwiches for her sick grandfather, carrying the weight of an adult’s world on nine-year-old shoulders.
By morning, he had a plan.
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