I started volunteering at the nursing home when I was 22. At first, it was for my university application. By 25, I was still there. The halls, the bingo nights, the stories from the residents had become part of my life.
One afternoon, I stopped by Mrs. Coleman’s room. She was 90, quiet, and frail. She took my hand and looked at me with sharp eyes.
“I know you,” she whispered.
I thought she was confused, but then she said something that froze me.
“You lived next door. You came to my birthdays when you were little. I never forgot those eyes.”
Memories rushed back. Balloons. Cake. Her warm laugh. I had been a foster child who always felt unseen. But she remembered me. She had carried me in her memory for decades. I held her hand and cried.
The next morning, everything changed. I woke up to see $700,000 in my bank account. Moments later, the nursing home called. Mrs. Coleman had slipped into a coma. A nurse gave me an envelope she had left behind. Inside was a note:
“Use this for your dreams, sweet girl. You deserve it.”
She never woke again. Days later, she was gone.
I used $50,000 to repair the home’s roof and improve the common spaces for the residents. Most of the money went to foster care charities. I kept a part of it to put myself through nursing school.
Mrs. Coleman gave me more than money. She gave me proof that I was seen, that my life mattered. She gave me a future.
