A week after I handed a tired young mother four dollars at the gas station, an unmarked white envelope appeared at my workplace — no return address, just my name scribbled across the front. I had no idea that simple envelope would change how I saw kindness forever.
My name’s Ross. I’m 49, married to Lydia, and we have two kids who seem to grow faster than our paychecks. We live in a modest house with a mortgage that still feels heavy — but it’s home, and that means something.
A few years back, the factory I’d worked at for twenty-three years shut down overnight. One day I was clocking in, and by afternoon, the gates were locked and a sign on the fence read “Bankrupt.” Just like that, decades of loyalty were gone.
Finding work after that wasn’t easy. I sent résumés everywhere, called every contact I had. But at my age, most companies want someone younger and cheaper. Eventually, I landed a night shift at a gas station off Highway 52 — not glamorous, but honest work.
Most nights, it’s just me, the hum of the coolers, and the flicker of the old fluorescent lights. That night started like any other — a few truckers, a teenager buying snacks, then quiet.
It was 11:30 p.m. when she walked in — a young woman holding a sleeping child, maybe three years old. The boy’s head rested on her shoulder, his arms limp with exhaustion. She looked worn out, her sweatshirt stained, her eyes tired in a way that went beyond lack of sleep.
Continue reading on next page…