It had been a long and exhausting day.
I was walking home from work when I saw an old woman leaning against a fence, one hand on her chest, panting.
Two large bags of groceries lay at her feet.
I approached quietly and asked if she needed any help.
« Thank you, son, » she said weakly. «
I’m just back from the grocery store… I thought I could manage, but my heart isn’t what it used to be. It’s not far, just a little further down the road. »
I couldn’t just leave her there.
I took her bags and walked beside her, keeping pace with her, as she paused for breath between sentences.
She told me she had been living alone since her husband’s death, that her children rarely called, and that her small pension barely covered her living expenses.
Her words resonated with a quiet sadness, but also with a heartbreaking dignity.
I couldn’t help but feel compassion for her.
When we arrived at her small house on the outskirts of town, she gave a faint smile, thanked me, and wished me good health.
I put her bags down by the door, nodded, and left.
I hadn’t even written down her address. It was just a kind gesture, nothing more.
But the next evening, on my way home from work, I saw flashing blue and red lights in front of my building.
Police cars. Officers everywhere.
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