A Price for Kindness
When the owner found out, he was furious. “We’re not a charity!” he shouted. The next morning, I was fired.
I left with nothing but my apron, the faint smell of flour still clinging to it, and the tiny hairpin the woman had given me. I didn’t know why I kept it — maybe because it reminded me that kindness, even when it costs us something, is never truly wasted.
Six weeks passed. I searched endlessly for another job but found nothing. My savings were nearly gone, and so was my confidence. Then, one evening, while folding laundry, I found a small envelope tucked into the pocket of my old bakery apron.
Inside was a short letter written in careful handwriting.
“Sometimes kindness costs,” it read, “but it never goes unpaid.”
I stared at the note for a long time, chills running down my spine. There was no signature, but I knew exactly who it was from.
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