After losing my wife and daughter, I cared for a wealthy terminally ill woman who promised me her fortune. Later on, Margaret died and left me nothing. Disappointed, I was leaving the service when her lawyer stopped me and said, “She made absolutely certain you received exactly what you deserved.”
The vending machine hummed louder than the hospice hallway.
I stood in front of it with a handful of coins resting in my palm.
One dollar. Two quarters. Three dimes. Still not enough.
Coffee had become my one small luxury after every volunteer shift. It wasn’t good coffee.
To me, it tasted like surviving another day.
I sighed and started sliding the coins back into my pocket.
“You know,” a voice said behind me, “nobody should have to calculate whether they can afford coffee while they’re grieving.”
I turned.
An elderly woman sat in a wheelchair a few feet away.
Silver hair.
Bright blue eyes.
A knitted blanket covered her knees even though it wasn’t cold.
She held out a crisp dollar bill.
I immediately shook my head.
“I can’t.”
“Oh, nonsense.” She wiggled the dollar impatiently. “It’s only money.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I said.
She laughed.
Then she nodded toward the empty chair beside her.
“Sit down instead.”
I don’t know why I listened. Maybe because I was tired of standing alone.
I bought the coffee.
Then I sat beside her.
“I’m Margaret,” she said.
She stirred her tea. “You’re not one of the nurses.”
“No.”
“The volunteers, then.”
I nodded.
“How long?” she pressed.
Margaret looked at me over the rim of her cup.
“You’ve lost someone.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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