She Could Only Pay in Pennies — I Chose Compassion Over My Career

I set the pizza on her lap.

Steam rose up and warmed her face. She closed her eyes and breathed in like it was oxygen itself.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

I walked back to my car.

Sat there.

Didn’t start the engine.

After a minute, I texted dispatch: Flat tire. Need 45 minutes.

Then I drove to the nearest big-box store.

I didn’t buy junk.

Milk. Eggs. Bread. Soup with pull-tabs. Oatmeal. Bananas. A rotisserie chicken still warm in its plastic shell.

When I returned, she was eating her second slice like she was afraid it might vanish.

I started placing groceries on her table.

She froze.

“What is all this?” she asked.

“My grandma lives alone too,” I said quietly. “I’d hope someone would do this for her.”

She tried to stand but couldn’t manage the rug.

So I went to her.

She gripped my hand and pressed it to her forehead, sobbing.

“I worked forty-five years,” she said. “I did everything right.”

I stayed an hour.