I bought shawarma for a homeless man and his dog on a frigid winter evening, thinking it was a small act of kindness. But when he handed me a note hinting at a forgotten connection, I realized this was no ordinary encounter. After 17 years of marriage, raising two teenagers, and endless shifts at a sporting goods store, my days had become predictable.
That particular evening, bitterly cold at 26°F, I trudged toward the bus stop, dreaming of warmth and home. My thoughts were consumed by work hassles, my daughter’s struggles in math, and the endless juggle of parenting and bills. Passing the familiar shawarma stand, I noticed a homeless man and his shivering dog gazing longingly at the steaming meat.
His thin coat and the dog’s lack of fur tugged at my heart. When he timidly asked the vendor for hot water, the sharp rebuff—”GET OUT OF HERE! This ain’t no charity!”—was a blow that echoed in the icy air.
I couldn’t ignore it. My grandmother’s voice rang in my mind: “Kindness costs nothing but can change everything.” Without hesitation, I ordered two shawarmas and coffees. When I handed him the food, his gratitude was palpable.
“God bless you,” he whispered. As I turned to leave, he stopped me, scribbled something on a piece of paper, and handed it to me. “Read it at home,” he said with a peculiar smile.
Intrigued but weary, I slipped the note into my pocket and hurried home, ready to bury myself in the chaos of family life. It wasn’t until the next evening, while gathering clothes for laundry, that I rediscovered the crumpled note. Written in shaky handwriting, it read:
“Thank you for saving my life.
You don’t know this, but you’ve already saved it once before.”
Below it was a date from three years ago and the name “Lucy’s Café.” A chill ran through me as the memory surfaced. On that rainy day years ago, I’d noticed a man who looked utterly broken in the bustling café. He was drenched, desperate, and ignored by everyone.
Following my grandmother’s advice, I’d bought him coffee and a croissant, offering a warm smile as I left. I hadn’t thought about it since, but clearly, he had. The man’s gratitude haunted me.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to do more. The next day, I sought him out. He was sitting near the shawarma stand, huddled with his dog.
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