was clearing out Reina’s closet when I posted a free bundle of toddler clothes. Minutes later, a message came from a woman named Nura. Times were hard. Her little girl had nothing warm. Could I mail the box? She’d pay me “when she could.” I almost ignored it.
But grief from my mother’s recent passing had softened me. I mailed it, paid the postage, and forgot about it. A year later, a package arrived. Inside were the dresses—washed, folded—and a crocheted yellow duck from my childhood I thought I’d lost.
A note read: “You helped me when I had no one. This duck kept my daughter’s bad dreams away. She’s better now. It’s time it comes home.”I cried on my kitchen floor. At the bottom of the note was a phone number. I called. Nura answered, voice tired but warm. She had fled an abusive partner with only a toddler and a duffel.
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