One day, I handed her a cheese sandwich and lied, “I’m not hungry.” She hesitated, then took it. The next day, I brought more. My mom never asked questions. Amy always said thank you in a voice so soft it barely reached the air.
Then, one Monday, she was gone. No goodbye. No explanation. The teacher said she’d moved, but wouldn’t say where. I wrote letters and left them at the office. Weeks later, I received a package with every letter I’d sent and a note in Amy’s handwriting: “Thank you for being there when no one else was.”
That was the last I heard from her.
Until twelve years later.
I’d just come out of surgery, groggy and cold in a hospital bed. The nurse walked in — hair pulled into a bun, name tag swinging from her scrubs. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her.
Then she smiled and said, “You’re going to be okay. I promise. You helped me once, and I’ve never forgotten.”
I froze. “Amy?”Continue reading…
