After my father’s death, I visited his grave every week to talk to him, as if he could still hear me. One evening, as I placed his favorite white lilies on his tombstone, I noticed an elderly blind woman standing alone near a fresh grave. She looked lost, gripping her white cane tightly.
I approached her gently. “Do you need help?” I asked.
She turned toward my voice with a faint smile. “Would you mind walking me home? My sons were supposed to pick me up, but they never came.”
Her name was Kira. Her husband, Samuel, had just passed away, and her grief was raw. “My boys promised to wait with me,” she said bitterly. “But they left me here alone. Samuel always said they’d be the death of me.”
I walked her to her cozy brick house, surrounded by roses. Inside, she offered me tea. The walls were covered in old photos—one showed her and Samuel in Paris, looking happy.
“Samuel didn’t trust the boys,” she said as she poured the tea. “He put cameras everywhere.”
I had no idea how much that simple act of kindness would change everything.
The next morning, loud banging woke me. Two furious men stood at my door with a police officer. “That’s her!” the older one shouted. “She was in our mother’s house yesterday!”
The younger one glared at me. “Did you steal from her?”
I was stunned. “I just walked her home! I didn’t take anything!”
At the police station, Kira was waiting. She reached for my hand. “I told them you didn’t do it,” she said firmly. Then, turning to the officer, she added, “Check the cameras.”
Her sons paled.
The footage revealed the truth—after I left, Kira’s own sons had ransacked the house, stealing money and jewelry. They were arrested on the spot.
In the weeks that followed, Kira and I grew close. “Maybe Samuel sent you to me,” she said one day, squeezing my hand.
Sometimes, the people we least expect become family.
