An elderly woman stood in line ahead of me, clutching a box of cereal and a gallon of milk. She looked exhausted, hands trembling, body leaning forward as if upright required effort.
She noticed my single soda and smiled. “Son,” she said softly, “you go before me.”
I shook my head. “No, ma’am. I’m fine.”
She waved me forward. “I’ve got time. You don’t.”
I paid for my soda, but I couldn’t leave. I circled back, watching as she struggled to pay. She was short by a few dollars and began to put the milk back.
“Don’t put it back,” I said. “I’ve got it.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “You don’t even know me,” she whispered.
“But you let me go first,” I replied.
Outside, I noticed her struggling to unlock her car. I helped, and she introduced herself: Margaret. “Most people don’t see me anymore,” she said. She pulled out a faded letter from her late husband, a reminder of love long past.
I offered her a ride home. Inside her small house, filled with memories, she poured tea, and we talked like friends. When I left, she hugged me gently.
A year later, a card arrived:
“Dear Son, you reminded me kindness still lives in ordinary moments. Enclosed is a keychain: ‘Go first.’ Because you never know when a small kindness will be someone’s last good memory.”
I still carry it—and I let others go first whenever I can.
