I’m a widowed mom working two jobs to raise my 13-year-old son. One day, I found $3,500 hidden in his piggy bank.
When he mentioned a classmate’s birthday party, something felt off. I called the boy’s mother—there was no party. So I followed him after school.
He walked into a rundown laundromat and slipped into the alley. I watched in horror as he handed a thick envelope of cash to a young man, who gave him something small in return.
When he saw me, he froze.
“It’s not what you think,” he said.
Then I noticed the envelope. It read: “Donation: Ms. Lily’s Cancer Treatment Fund.”
Ms. Lily was his school librarian. After his father died, she’d let him spend quiet lunches in the library and helped him cope. He’d overheard she couldn’t afford chemo, so he secretly started fixing and reselling phones after school to raise money for her.
I was speechless—not from fear, but pride.
The man in the alley was her nephew collecting donations quietly. The next day, we organized a community fundraiser and raised over $9,000.
I thought I was the one holding our lives together. But that day, I realized my son already had the kind of heart that could change someone else’s world.