It came with no return address. Just my name, written neatly on the front of the envelope in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
Inside was a folded note and a twenty-dollar bill, held in place with a single strip of clear tape.
The letter started with:
“Miss Emily, You may not remember us…”
And honestly, I didn’t. Not at first.
But as I kept reading, it started coming back in pieces—an exhausted couple at the checkout line, their card getting declined, the baby crying in the cart. I remembered the cashier rolling her eyes. I remembered how fast I pulled out my debit card, how I muttered “It’s fine, just let them go” and then forgot all about it by the time I got to my car.
Apparently, they didn’t.
“You paid for our groceries in a crowded supermarket. It makes me almost cry to think about it. We are back on our feet, and my husband and I want to say thank you for your courage and love for mi familia.”
I just stared at it, stunned.
But then—just before the signature—I saw something strange.
The handwriting at the bottom didn’t match the top. It was from a child.
Written in shaky pencil was:
“My mamá said you are why I want to help people now. I hope I can find you again before I leave.”
No explanation.
Before they leave where?
I flipped the envelope over.
And saw something that made my breath catch in my throat—a small, faded photograph. It was a picture of a young girl, maybe seven or eight years old, holding a worn teddy bear. In the background, I could make out a hospital room.
My heart pounded. Was this the child of the couple? Was she… sick?
I reread the letter, searching for clues. Nothing. Just gratitude and a child’s simple wish.
The next day, I couldn’t shake the image of the photograph. I decided to go to the supermarket where it had all happened. Maybe someone would remember them.