Amy was the poor girl in my fifth-grade class, mocked for her worn clothes and empty lunchbox. I became her only friend, sharing extra sandwiches and defending her from bullies. We bonded over her drawings until she vanished overnight, leaving only a note thanking me for seeing her. Twelve years later, post-surgery in a hospital,
a familiar nurse walked in—Amy. Now confident, she recognized me and sat to catch up. Her family had moved abruptly for her mom’s job, but my letters reached her, fueling her resilience. Scholarships and a kind nurse led her to nursing. She cared for me during recovery, and we reconnected over coffee, then dinners. When her mom got pancreatic cancer, I supported Amy through her caregiving and loss. After the funeral, we moved in together,
living simply. I encouraged Amy’s art, entering her in a show where her sketch of her mom’s hands won first place, sparking a career in art therapy. We married, opened an art café, and donate to school lunch and art programs. Amy ensures no child feels invisible, offering kindness as I once did for her. Kindness circles back—sometimes as a nurse, sometimes as love, always mattering.
