My fingers shook as I dialed. She answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Nura?” I whispered. There was a pause.
Then a soft exhale.
“Yes.”
I told her the box had arrived. I told her about the yellow duck. My mother.
The timing.
The unexpected ache in my chest. And then she told me her side.
The night she left an abusive home. The freezing apartment she stayed in because it was all she could afford.
How her daughter slept wearing one of my daughter’s pink sweaters, hugging the little duck like a guardian.
We both cried. Quietly. Not from sadness, exactly—but from recognition.
From Strangers to Something More
Weeks passed.
Then months. Our daughters met at a park first—sharing swings, giggling over melted ice cream.
They became friends quickly, the way children do—without hesitation, without questions. We followed, slower, careful—but real.
Sometimes she cooked dinner for us.
Sometimes I babysat her daughter while she went to job interviews. On the anniversary of my mother’s passing, she showed up with flowers. One evening, she said, “I kept the clothes folded in a drawer until I felt strong again.
I wanted to return them… not because I didn’t need them anymore, but because I wanted you to know—your kindness didn’t disappear.
It carried us.”
A Small Duck on a Nightstand
Now, that little crocheted duck sits on my daughter’s nightstand. Its yarn slightly frayed, its button eyes uneven.
My daughter falls asleep beside it every night. Not because it’s cute—but because she knows it’s special.
It’s a reminder.
That sometimes the things we give away—clothes, warmth, kindness—find their way back when we need them most. That love, even in small packages, travels farther than we think. That what we send out into the world has a way of returning—softened, strengthened, transformed.
Kindness isn’t lost.
It circulates — through hands, through hearts, through time. And sometimes, it finds its way back home.
