Grief had become a constant companion since my father’s death. Every week, I visited his grave, bringing white lilies—his favorite.
That evening, as I whispered goodbye, I spotted an elderly blind woman standing alone near a fresh burial plot. She seemed fragile, her hands trembling around her cane.
“Ma’am, do you need help?” I asked softly.
She turned toward me, relief in her voice. “Would you walk me home? My sons forgot me.”
Her name was Kira. Her husband, Samuel, had just died, and her sorrow was heavy. “They left me here,” she muttered. “Samuel warned me about them.”
I guided her to her charming home, where roses climbed the brick walls. Inside, she served tea while old photographs watched from the walls—one showed her and Samuel in Paris, young and in love.
“Samuel didn’t trust the boys,” she admitted. “He installed cameras.”
I never imagined how much that small kindness would cost me.
The next morning, fists pounded on my door. Two men—Kira’s sons—stood there with a cop. “You robbed our mother!” the older one accused.
“I only walked her home!” I protested.
At the station, Kira sat waiting. “They’re lying,” she told the officer. “Check the cameras.”
Her sons turned pale.
The footage didn’t lie—it showed them stealing from their own mother after I left. They were arrested, their greed exposed.
Afterward, Kira and I became unlikely friends. “You were my light in the dark,” she told me.
Sometimes, family isn’t about blood—it’s about who stands by you when you need them most.
