Visiting my father’s grave was my way of coping with loss. That evening, as I placed lilies on his tombstone, I noticed a blind widow standing alone, her cane tapping uncertainly.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
She sighed in relief. “My sons were supposed to come back for me. Would you walk me home?”
Her name was Kira. She had just buried her husband, Samuel. “They abandoned me here,” she said bitterly. “Just like Samuel said they would.”
Her home was warm and full of memories—photos of her and Samuel in happier times. Over tea, she told me, “Samuel didn’t trust our boys. He put cameras everywhere.”
I left feeling good about helping her. But the next morning, her sons showed up at my door with the police, accusing me of theft.
At the station, Kira defended me. “Check the cameras,” she insisted.
The truth came out—her sons had robbed her. The officers arrested them, and Kira turned to me with tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.
In the weeks that followed, we grew close. “Maybe this was fate,” she said.
Sometimes, the kindest acts lead to the most unexpected blessings.
