I gave money to a poor woman with a baby – The next morning, I was shocked to see that she was doing something on my husband's grave

"Please," she whispered when I passed, her voice barely rising above the rain lapping. "Everything can help, ma'am." ”

I never give foreigners money. That is one of my rules. I tell myself that it is a question of being practical, not without hearts. But on that day, his call anchored me on the spot. Maybe it was the baby's little face, round and unconscious, with eyes too big for its small size...

I looked for my wallet and I handed him 50 dollars.

"Thank you," she murmured, with her lips trembling.

I just hoped that this woman would take that little boy out of the rain and get him into a hot place. He needed to be dry and safe.

And that was supposed to be everything. An act of kindness, an ephemeral moment in my life. But life does not always close the chapters so nerdly, does it?

The next morning, I went to the cemetery to collect on my husband's grave. James had been gone for almost two years. And if I felt that no time had passed, I also felt that decades had passed.

The car accident had left me hollow, but the time, cruel and regular, had blunt the sharpest edges of my grief.

Now I wore it like a ghost member, always there, slightly painful. I tried as hard as I could to forget that feeling of pain, but nothing was there.

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