I bought shawarma for a homeless man and his dog on a bitter winter evening. It seemed like a simple act of kindness at the time. But when he slipped me a note hinting at a past I’d completely forgotten, I knew this was no ordinary encounter.
I worked at a sporting goods store in a mall downtown. After 17 years of marriage, two teenagers, and countless late shifts, I thought nothing could surprise me. But life is funny that way.
That day had been particularly rough because holiday shoppers demanded refunds for items they’d clearly worn. Also, a register kept jamming, and my daughter, Amy, had texted me about failing another math test. We’d definitely had to think about hiring a tutor.
All these things were on my mind when my shift ended. Even worse, the temperature had dropped to bone-chilling levels. The thermometer outside the store showed 26.6°F.
The wind howled between buildings, whipping loose papers across the sidewalk as I walked outside. I pulled my coat tighter, dreaming of the warm bath I would set up at home.
On my way to the bus, I saw the shawarma stand that had been there almost as long as I’d worked in the store. It was between a closed flower shop and a dim convenience store.
Steam rose from the grill’s metal surface into the warm air. The scent of roasted meat and spices almost made me stop for one. But I didn’t particularly like the vendor. He was a stocky man with permanent frown lines.
The food was good, and you could get your shawarma in two seconds, but I wasn’t in the mood for any grumpiness today.
But I still stopped when I saw a homeless man and his dog walking up to the stand. The man, who was around 55 years old, looked cold and definitely hungry as he stared at the rotating meat.
The man wore a thin coat, and the poor puppy lacked fur. My heart broke for them.
“You gonna order something or just stand there?” the vendor’s sharp voice startled me.
I watched the homeless man gather his courage. “Sir, please. Just some hot water?” he asked, his shoulders hunched.
Sadly, I knew the vendor’s response before he even said it. “GET OUT OF HERE! This ain’t no charity!” he barked.
As the dog pressed closer to its owner, I saw the man’s shoulders slump. That’s when my grandmother’s face flashed in my mind.
She’d raised me on stories about her harsh childhood and told me that a single act of kindness had saved her family from starvation. I’d never forgotten that lesson, and although I couldn’t always help, her words came to mind:
“Kindness costs nothing but can change everything.”
I spoke up before I knew it. “Two coffees and two shawarmas.”
The vendor nodded and worked at lightning speed. “$18,” he flatly said as he placed my order on the counter.
I handed over the money, grabbed the to-go bag and a tray, and rushed to catch up with the homeless man.
When I gave him the food, his hands shook.
“God bless you, child,” he whispered.
I nodded awkwardly, ready to hurry to head home and away from this cold weather. But his raspy voice stopped me.
“Wait.” I turned and watched as he took out a pen and paper and scribbled something quickly, then held it to me. “Read it at home,” he said with a strange smile.
I nodded, stuffing the note into my pocket. My mind was already elsewhere, wondering if there would be any seats on the bus and what I would make for dinner.
At home that night, life went on as usual. My son, Derek, needed help with his science project. Amy complained about her math teacher. My husband, Tom, talked about a new client at his law firm.
The note stayed forgotten in my coat pocket until I started gathering clothes for the laundry the next evening.
I opened the crumpled paper and read the message:
“Thank you for saving my life. You don’t know this, but you’ve already saved it once before.”
Below the message was a date from three years ago and the name “Lucy’s Café.”
The clothes I was holding nearly slipped from my hands. Lucy’s had been my regular lunch spot before it closed.
And suddenly, I remembered that day clearly. There was a thunderstorm, and many people came into the café looking for shelter.
A man had stumbled in. His clothes were soaked, and a look in his eye told me he was desperate, not just for food. For something else.
No one even looked at him except for me. The waitress almost turned him away, but just like the other day, I’d heard my grandmother’s voice.
So, I bought him coffee and a croissant.
I told him to have a nice day and shared my brightest smile. It was nothing special… or so I thought.
It was that same man, and my heart broke again. Clearly, his life hadn’t gotten any better, yet he remembered my kindness. But was food once every few years enough?
I couldn’t sleep that night with the thought racing through my mind.
The next day, I left work early.
Luckily, he was close to the shawarma stand, just huddled in a corner, hugging his dog. The adorable pup wagged his tail when he saw me.
“Hey, there,” I smiled. “I read the note. I can’t believe you remembered that time.”
The man looked up, surprised to see me, and gave me a brittle smile. “You’re a bright spot in a harsh world, child, and you’ve saved me twice now.”
“I didn’t,” I shook my head. “That was just some food and basic human decency. I want to do more. Will you let me help you, for real?”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because everyone deserves a second chance, a real one.”
He nodded, and I told him to follow me.
There was a lot to do to help him get back on his feet, and with my husband being a lawyer, I knew we could help him. But first, I wanted to get to know him, so I invited him to a café, introduced myself properly, and learned his name was Victor.
Over two cups of coffee, a shared berry pie, plus a pup treat for his dog, Lucky, Victor shared how he’d lost everything. He’d been a truck driver with a wife and a daughter.
One rainy night, a car swerved into his lane. The accident left him with a shattered leg and crushing medical debt. When he couldn’t find another job, his wife took their daughter and left.
Despite his injuries, his company refused to pay disability benefits. And eventually, depression swallowed him whole.
“That day at Lucy’s,” he confessed, wrapping his hands around his coffee cup, “I was planning to end it all. But you smiled at me. Treated me like a human being. It gave me one more day. Then another. Then another. Eventually, I found Lucky abandoned, and I kept going. I didn’t feel so alone.”
Tears rolled down his cheeks. “And now here you are again,” he finished. “Just when this rough weather had me wondering if I should let someone adopt my dog.”
I shook my head as tears welled up in my eyes. “No, you don’t have to do that. I’m here. Lucky is not going anywhere without you.”
That night, I contacted a local shelter and secured a spot for Victor and his dog.
I also started a GoFundMe for new clothes and essentials. My children helped create the social media posts. Additionally, one of Tom’s colleagues specialized in disability benefits litigation and was eager to take Victor’s case pro bono.
Once that was settled, we helped Victor replace his identification and important documents, which had been stolen while he was sleeping on a park bench.
It took us another month to find him a proper room to rent near the shelter. With a new address, he secured a job at a factory warehouse, where his supervisor allowed Lucky inside; the dog quickly became the unofficial mascot of the morning shift.
On my birthday the following year, my doorbell rang. Victor stood there, holding a chocolate cake from the local bakery.
He looked clean-shaven and well-dressed, and his smile radiated a confidence he had never had before. Even Lucky wore a new red collar.
His eyes shone with gratitude as he said, “You’ve saved my life three times now — at the café, at the shawarma stand, and with everything you’ve done since. I’ll never forget it. I wanted to bring you this cake, but it’s really the least I could do for the hero who was born on this day.”
I smiled, refusing to start crying again, and invited him inside.
As my family shared cake and conversation with our friend, I thought about how close I’d come to walking past him that cold evening, too busy with my own problems to notice someone else’s pain.
How many other Victors were out there waiting for someone to see them?
That’s why I often repeated my grandmother’s words to Amy and Derek, reminding them to be kind always and take every opportunity to make the world a little less harsh.
You never know if it’ll be a lifeline for someone.
