I don’t normally pause for dramatic moments in stores. Most days, I’m too exhausted to contemplate anything but what’s on sale and whether I can make my money last for the week. As a single mom of a seven-year-old with asthma, I live somewhere between being worn out and worried, striving to make every choice matter.
It was really challenging last month. My car broke down, I lost all my money, and the new medicine my daughter Mia required came with a “partially covered” label that felt like a punch. I had exactly $18.47 that night to buy food for a week. My list was short and very useful: milk, flour, potatoes, yogurt, tea, and bread. Nothing else.
I was looking at different types of flour when I heard a gasp behind me and then the definite sound of someone falling to the ground.
I turned around and noticed an old woman at the fruit area. Her skirt was stuck under her shoe, and apples were rolling down the aisle. She appeared to be scared and embarrassed, but not particularly hurt. People walked by her as if they didn’t see her. One person even stepped over an apple without stopping. It felt weirdly cold the whole time.
I dropped my basket and ran over.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She tried to sit up, but her hands were shaking. “I’m fine, honey.” “Just clumsy today.”
I responded softly, “You’re not clumsy.” “Everyone goes through this.”
She pointed at the apples that were all over the place. “I only needed a few.” I wanted to cook a pie.
I helped her sit on a bench nearby, then I picked up the apples, brushed them off, and put them in her bag. She said her name was Evelyn and talked softly, trying not to sound like a burden.
“Do you need help with the rest of your shopping?” I asked.
“Just the apples,” she remarked in a low voice. “My legs aren’t as strong as they used to be.”
I should have stopped there, I knew. I knew what math was waiting for me at home. I paid for the goods she had in her basket because of the way she looked—thankful, humiliated, and alone. I had virtually everything left, and it cost $16.86.
When I gave her the bag and the receipt, she got quite emotional.
She said, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I wanted to.”
She hugged me, and for someone tiny, it was quite forceful. “I hope kindness finds you too, sweetheart.”
I walked home with fewer groceries than I had planned, yet I felt calm for no reason. Not sorry. Just a peaceful sense of surety.
The next day, I went back to get the tea I had left behind. Mia was with a neighbor, and I told her I’d be back soon. I picked up the box, turned to go to the register, and then halted. Two guards were coming my way.
“Ma’am, can you come with us?” one of them said.
My heart raced. “I paid for everything yesterday.”
The guard said, “You’re not in trouble.” “Management just needs to talk to you.”
They took me to a small office where Mr. Franklin, the store manager, was sitting at his desk. There was an envelope and a gift basket on it. I got ready for anything, not sure what to think.
He looked up with a calm face. “You’re Kylie, right?”
I nodded my head.
He said, “We looked at video from yesterday.” “We saw you help an old lady and pay for her groceries.” “Not many people would have done that.”
He pushed the envelope in my direction. “This is part of our program to show our appreciation for the community.” Every three months, we honor someone who goes above and beyond to serve others.
There was a check for $1,000 inside. That was plenty to fix my car and replenish Mia’s prescriptions without worrying. My chest felt better.
There was a quiet knock on the door before I could say anything.
Evelyn walked in, sporting a modest cardigan and a big smile.
“That’s you,” she said. “I asked them to call me when you got here.”
She gave me a well-knit scarf. “I made this a while ago. I want you to have it.” It’s not fancy, but it’s warm.”
“I can’t do that,” I said.
“Yes, you can,” she said softly. “You helped me even though you didn’t have to.”
Then she stopped for a moment before speaking again. “Would you and your daughter like to have dinner with me sometime?” I live alone, so it would be wonderful to have someone to talk to.
I smiled. “Please set the table for three.” Mia would love it.
We had a prepared lunch that night while Mia played with an old box of dolls on Evelyn’s rug. Evelyn told us stories about her husband, who had died. She told us how he loved to dance with her in the kitchen and how he always burned the pies but said they tasted better that way. Mia laughed so hard that she fell off the couch.
Evelyn softly caressed my hand at the end of the night. “Thanks,” she said. “Not for the groceries, but for being nice to me when I felt like I was invisible.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just clasped her hand back.
I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time as I walked home with Mia napping on my shoulder, the scarf in my bag, and a check big enough to take care of our immediate needs.
Hope.
I hope that is real and solid. This type of hope arises from the understanding that compassion will return to you, even if you have only $18.47 left.
And for once, it seemed like the world was watching out for us too.
