After my heart attack, the bills began piling up, and for the first time in my life, I had to ask for help. I turned to my grandson Eric, whom I’d supported for years — tuition, car repairs, everything. He refused without hesitation. Desperate, I went to my son, Ben, hoping for understanding. Instead, he looked at me coldly and said, “So, all this time you never trusted me, and now you need me?” His words hit harder than any illness could.

He wasn’t wrong. I had always favored Eric — maybe because he reminded me of my late wife — while Ben and I grew distant after she died. Still, I never thought the day would come when my own son would see me as a stranger. After a long silence, Ben sighed, handed me an envelope with $300, and said, “Maybe ask yourself why Eric didn’t help you.” I thanked him and left, the bus ride home heavy with guilt and realization.

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about Ben’s words. Had I failed to teach Eric compassion? Or had I taught him that I’d always be there to clean up his messes? The $300 covered some bills, but it didn’t ease the ache in my chest — not the physical one, but the loneliness of knowing I had given so much and still ended up alone. I made a list of people to call for help, but pride stopped me every time.

The next morning, I stopped by the corner store where I used to work. The owner, Martin, handed me a free coffee and secretly slipped me a $20 bill. As I sat outside, I noticed a young man digging through the trash. Without thinking, I walked over and gave him the money. “Hey son, you hungry?” I asked. He nodded, eyes wide with surprise. Watching him walk away, I realized that even when life humbles you, kindness is something you never lose — it’s the one thing you can still give.