It started as a quiet morning at the cemetery, where I went to visit my father’s grave. The loss still felt heavy—six months had passed, but the ache was constant. I stood there, placing white lilies on his headstone and whispering a farewell, when I noticed an elderly woman a few rows away. She was blind and holding a white cane, looking uncertain as she navigated the cemetery.
“Do you need help?” I asked softly. She smiled faintly and explained that her sons had promised to pick her up but hadn’t arrived. “Could you help me get home?” she asked.
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