Chapter 21: Acts of Kindness
In a world that had been mostly unkind to her, the smallest kindness felt like light cutting through thick clouds.
Mary never expected help. So when it came, it always caught her by surprise.
It started with Mrs. Raymond, who continued to quietly slip her extra bread during breaks and pretend not to notice when Mary hid her hunger behind a shy smile. Then there was a girl named Jummai, a quiet classmate who once offered Mary a pencil when hers broke during a test. That simple gesture—no teasing, no judgment—was like a handshake from the world Mary had stopped trusting.
One day, while walking home barefoot, the sun beating down on the dusty road, a woman selling oranges by the roadside called out to her.
"Little one, come. You look tired."
Mary hesitated.
"Don't worry, I don't want anything. Just take this."
The woman handed her an orange—ripe, sweet, and cool from the shade. Mary took it slowly, whispered, "Thank you," and walked on, savoring not just the fruit, but the feeling that someone had noticed her.
It wasn't just food or gifts. Sometimes it was a gentle look from a stranger, or a neighbor who scolded her aunt gently one morning when Mary was being shouted at too harshly.
"She's just a child," the woman said.
Though her aunt ignored it, Mary heard. She held onto those words like a thread of comfort in a cold house.
One Saturday, an older student at school slipped her a used pair of sandals.
"They're old, but still good," he said. "Better than nothing, right?"
Mary nodded, eyes wide. That evening, she wore them home with quiet pride.
Each act—small and fleeting—was like a patch sewn over the tears in her soul. They didn't erase the pain, but they reminded her that not everyone in the world wanted to see her suffer.
And deep inside, those kindnesses added up.
They watered the hope that Mary kept hidden inside her.
They reminded her: You are seen. You are worthy. You are not alone.