SHE WALKED SIX BLOCKS WITH A ROLLATOR—

Around 5 p.m., I saw Miss Inez, an elderly neighbor, inching down the sidewalk with her walker, grocery bags hanging from the handles—one with bread and cans, another with warm takeout wrapped in a towel. She was focused, determined, despite her tired breathing. I’d seen her before, always waving at the mailman, but today she seemed different. When I offered help, she gently declined, explaining she was bringing food to the Mitchell boy, whose mother was sick, leaving him alone for days. A taped-up note on the container read, “You matter.”

I walked with her to the Mitchell house. A tired boy, about 12, answered. Miss Inez handed him the food, pointing to the note, reminding him someone cared. He quietly thanked her, revealing no one had visited in days. Later, when his mother returned, neighbors rallied, bringing casseroles and comics. The boy kept the note on the fridge. Months later, when Miss Inez fell, he was the first to help daily, now smiling, carrying bags. A small act—a meal, a note—showed him he wasn’t invisible, changing his direction. Sometimes, the littlest things remind someone they belong.