The rain continued most of the way.
By the time I reached my building, my shoes were soaked through, my hands were numb, and I had spent half the walk criticizing myself for what I had done.
I couldn’t afford generosity.
That was the conclusion I reached that night.
Mrs. Avery must have heard me struggling with the stroller because she opened her door and immediately ushered us inside, wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and handed me a grocery bag filled with eggs, bread, soup, and milk.
When I finally admitted what had happened to the ten dollars, I expected her to tell me I had been irresponsible.
Instead, she poured me tea.
“Maybe you couldn’t afford to give him ten dollars,” she said, “but maybe he couldn’t afford for everyone to keep walking past him.”
I remembered those words for years.
I never saw Walter Hayes again.
Twenty-Seven Years Later
