An old woman—about 80—stood in line in front of me holding just cereal and milk. She could barely stand, leaning on the counter as if every second upright hurt. I had only a soda.
She turned, smiled gently, and said, “Son, you go before me.”
That small kindness hit me harder than anything loud or dramatic ever could. So when it was my turn, I paid, stepped aside, and when the cashier rang her items up, I said, “Those are mine too.”
She protested. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not,” I told her. “You did me a kindness first.”
Her eyes filled with tears. Her name was Margaret—Maggie. “There isn’t much ‘everyone’ left,” she said when I asked about her family.
A week later, I returned to the store. She hadn’t come in. The cashier told me her neighbor was looking for her. Something felt wrong.
I drove to her building. She’d fallen. An ambulance had taken her to the hospital.
I found her there. When she saw me, she cried. We talked for hours—about loss, pride, and how independence was all she had left.
“You reminded me I still matter,” she said.
She didn’t live much longer. Before she passed, she left me a note:
Kindness is the only thing we take with us. Thank you for seeing me.
I carry it with me. I slow down now. I let people go first.
Because sometimes, kindness is just cereal, milk… and noticing someone.
