If you looked at my life on paper, it would read like a list of losses.
My daughter died. My husband left. All I have left is a small, failing diner my grandfather once ran, the place where he taught me, “We feed people, not wallets.”
Bills piled up. I called a broker. I was days from losing everything.
Then, one freezing night, an old man with a cane walked in with a tiny dog and asked for the cheapest thing on the menu, counting his last coins.
I heard my grandfather’s voice and sat him down anyway. I cooked a real meal—meatloaf, potatoes, vegetables—and even made a plate for his dog. We talked. I told him about my daughter, my marriage, how close I was to giving up.
He listened quietly, thanked me, and left. I thought that was the end.
The next morning, I found a white envelope taped to the diner door.
On the back, in shaky handwriting, it said: “From Henry.”
Inside was a letter from the man—and a reminder that kindness still matters, even when everything else feels gone.