Amy was the girl in our class who had nothing. Her clothes were worn, her backpack frayed, and she never brought lunch. Kids teased her relentlessly. I was her only friend — not because I was brave, but because I couldn’t stand watching her go hungry. So I started packing extra food.
She was quiet, but brilliant — funny, creative, and kind. She once drew a pencil sketch of us on the swings. I kept it tucked in my notebook for years.
Then, one Monday, she was gone. No goodbye. No explanation. The teacher said she’d moved, but wouldn’t say where. I wrote letters and left them at the office. Weeks later, I received a package with every letter I’d sent and a note in Amy’s handwriting: “Thank you for being there when no one else was.”
That was the last I heard from her.
Until twelve years later.
I’d just come out of surgery, groggy and cold in a hospital bed. The nurse walked in — hair pulled into a bun, name tag swinging from her scrubs. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her.
Then she smiled and said, “You’re going to be okay. I promise. You helped me once, and I’ve never forgotten.”
I froze. “Amy?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Yeah. It’s me.”
