The day I bought a hot meal for a homeless man, I thought it was a small act of kindness. Little did I know, within 24 hours, he’d find me again, his eyes full of tears, and confess something that would change me forever.
The morning had started like any other. As a mom of four, life is a non-stop juggling act. Between my part-time teaching job and my husband Mason’s work as an engineer, we stretch every dollar to feed our kids, filling our modest house with laughter. That day, standing in the Happinezz Mart parking lot, I was gathering my energy for another shopping marathon when I saw him—a homeless man holding a sign that simply said, “HELP.”
His tired eyes were focused not on people, but on the grocery store display of fresh bread. His gray hair peeked from under a worn cap, his jacket hanging loose over his thin frame. As I watched, I felt a pang, remembering my own father, who always believed that strength was about having the courage to accept help.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, approaching him.
He turned, surprise and hunger mingling in his eyes. “More than you can imagine. I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.”
Together, we walked the aisles, his hand hovering over the cheapest items, apologizing each time he thought he was asking for too much. I insisted we add a proper hot meal from the deli. We talked about everything from soup cans to our families. His name was Morgan, and he told me how he’d once had a garden full of fresh vegetables and a little girl named Grace who would always help people, just like I was helping him.
