I was seven months pregnant and broke when I saw an old man at the grocery store counting crumpled dollars in an attempt to buy dog food over a meal for himself.
All the money I made as a part-time at the pharmacy went on rent, gas, and doctor visits.
Until then, that Tuesday was just another day of trying to figure out what I could truly afford, until I saw the man struggling. He was working some of the nuts around in his basket, trying to get under $15.50 for a pound, while the dog settled beside him and waited. “Just take out the milk,” he said. “How much is it now?” The cashier rescanned everything. “$17.43, sir.”
He put the bread back. “Check it again.”
The line behind him grew. A man stood in a puffy coat muttering about being late for work, and a woman tapped her foot impatiently. The store security came over, “Sorry, sir, you’re not supposed to have a dog in here.”
Something inside me snapped. I wheeled my cart forward. “Put it all back in,” I told the cashier. “Everything he took out. Ring it up with mine.” The man turned slowly toward me. “Miss, that’s too kind. I can’t let you do that.”
“You’re not letting me do anything,” I said, “I’m doing this because I want it.”
He glanced at me. “Seven months. And me and Bean might need someone to do the same for us one day,” I said.
The cashier began to scan again, and my card cleared. I even threw in a rotisserie chicken to his bag. The man accepted the groceries with great care. “I’m Graham,” he said finally. “Most folks call me Gray. And this is Pippin.”
“Riley and Bean, speaking,” I said, pointing to my belly.
He nodded and smiled, then made his way out the door. I completed my purchases in a fog, attempting to make sense of what just occurred. The following morning, I awoke to a curious sound on my porch. I was to open the door and then I gasped. There was a silver Subaru Outback, shiny and new-looking with a huge red bow on the hood. At my feet was a box stuffed with groceries, baby products and a massive bag of diapers. There was an envelope for me.
Gray’s letter explained everything. He wasn’t poor. He and Pippin had continued Marietta’s tradition in the years since: entering shops pretending to be down on their luck, testing whether kindness was still alive.
“Yesterday was Marietta’s birthday,” he wrote. “You have been the person to prove her faith in people was vindicated. The car’s yours, Riley, free and clear. I went so far as to put a car seat base in for Bean, and you get a grocery and baby supply prepaid account for the next year.”
I sat on the porch, sobbing. I thought I was helping a poor old man and his dog, but it turned out Gray was the one doing me a favor.
“You had Marietta’s heart; her spirit and you have the idea that we’re all just walking each other home. Now it’s you who must be looked after,” the letter said.
Now, as I wait for Bean to make his debut into the world, I carry with me a conviction that throughout this terrible and yet remarkable year, I never quite mustered: Love persists.
“Gray, thanks,” I whispered in the Subaru. “Thank you, Marietta. So thank you, Pippin, for rocking my world.”
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Bored Daddy
Love and Peace
