25/08/2025
A good story about kindness. Re-posted from Joe Becigneul page.
My name’s Sarah. 78. Widowed? Nah. Divorced. 32 years ago. My ex-husband didn’t die, he just walked out one Tuesday, took the dog, and left me with a note, "You’re too much." For years, I believed him. I lived quiet. Too quiet. Did my shopping at 3 a.m. to avoid people. Talked to my cat, Mr. Whiskers. (RIP, 2020. He was my best mate.) When my grandson moved to Australia, I stopped answering the phone. Felt like... nobody needed me. Like I was already gone.
Then, last October, I got sick. Real sick. Pneumonia. Hospital for two weeks. Nurses were kind, but tired. One night, a young nurse named Amina sat by my bed. Not for meds. Just... sat. Didn’t talk. Didn’t stare at her phone. Just was there. I asked why. She said, "My grandma died alone in a hospital. I promised I’d sit with people who look lonely."
I cried. Not pretty tears. Ugly, snotty, "I’m 78 and nobody’s held my hand in years" tears.
She held my hand.
When I got home, I felt.... different. Not "fixed." Just... seen. So I did something stupid. I took the 10:45 p.m. bus to nowhere. Just.... rode it. Back and forth. All night. First night, I sat alone. Second night, a teen girl got on—red eyes, ripped tights, shivering. She slumped beside me. I wanted to say "You okay, love?" but my throat closed up. Too much, my ex’s voice hissed. So I did nothing.
Third night, same girl. This time, she dropped her phone. I picked it up. Handed it back. Our fingers brushed. She whispered, "Thanks." I said, "Cold night for ripped tights." She froze. Like I’d slapped her. Then, "Yeah. Mom threw ’em at me."
I didn’t offer advice. Didn’t say "God has a plan!" (Who says that? Idiots.) I just nodded. "Ripped’s better than no tights." She snorted. Actually snorted. Then we rode in silence. But it wasn’t empty silence. Felt… full.
Next week, I saw her again. This time, she slid into my seat. "You’re the bus lady," she said. "I look for you." Turns out her name’s Chloe. 16. Mom’s boyfriend kicked her out. She wasn’t sleeping on the bus, she was sleeping under it. In the bus depot. I didn’t offer her my couch. (I barely know her!) I didn’t call social services. (She’d run.) I just... kept showing up. Same seat. Same bus.
One night, she handed me a cold slice of pizza from her backpack. "Bus fare," she said, grinning. I ate it. Grease on my chin. Best pizza ever. Then… she vanished.
No text. No note. Just gone.
I rode that bus for weeks. Heart sinking every time the doors opened. Too much, my ex’s voice laughed. You scared her off. Last Tuesday, I gave up. Took a taxi home. Felt like a fool. Then knock on my door. Chloe stood there. Not alone. A woman beside her. Older. Tired eyes. Same nose as Chloe.
"This is my mum," Chloe said. "I told her about the bus lady who eats cold pizza."
Mum’s eyes filled. "Chloe’s been staying with her grandma. But she wouldn’t shut up about you. Said you... just sat there."
Mum hugged me. Smelled like Chloe’s shampoo. "We’re getting help," she whispered. "Therapy. For me. For him. It’s hard. But… we’re trying."
Chloe grinned. "Mum’s learning to knit. Says she’ll make you a scarf."
I didn’t say "I’m proud of you." I didn’t give a speech. I just made tea. We sat at my tiny kitchen table. Three women. Steam rising. No words needed.
Chloe’s mum came back yesterday. Left a lopsided knitted coaster on my porch. "First try," the note said. "Like us." I cried again. Ugly tears. But different this time. You see, I thought kindness was grand gestures. Food fridges. Repair shops. Fancy notes. But real kindness? It’s showing up. Again and again. Even when you’re scared. Even when it’s messy. Even when you’ve got nothing to give but your presence.
I’m not a hero. I’m just an old lady who finally stopped believing I was "too much." And Chloe? She’s not "saved." Her mum’s still learning to knit. Her stepdad’s still in therapy. Some nights, I still ride that bus alone. But now? When the doors open, I look up....
Because you never know who’s just waiting for someone to see them.
And maybe.... that someone is you.
By Sarah Jenkins.
