In fifth grade, Amy was the girl everyone picked on—ragged clothes, no lunch. The day I saw her pretend to chew, I started sneaking her food. She resisted at first, but soon we shared sandwiches, jokes, and sketches she drew of us. Then one Monday her desk was empty. Weeks later, my returned letters carried only one line in her handwriting: “Thank you for seeing me when no one else did.” And she was gone.
Twelve years later, I woke up in a hospital bed. A nurse walked in, smiled, and said, “You helped me once.” It was Amy. She told me about nights in motels, scholarships, and a nurse who’d covered her exam fees. Kindness had carried her through.
We picked up where we’d left off—coffee, dinners, movie nights. When her mom fell ill, Amy cared for her with quiet grace. After her passing, Amy moved in with me. She found her old sketchbook, entered an art show, and won first prize with a drawing of her mom’s hands holding a paper lunch bag. That was the start of her art career—and our life together.
I proposed on the park swing she’d once drawn. Today we run a small art café, donating to school lunch programs. Kids come in hungry or overlooked. Amy always sees them. Kindness never disappears. It waits, until it comes back when you need it most.