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

I handed him my uniform shirt.

I walked out unemployed.

No applause.

No heroic music.

Just the smell of dumpsters in the alley and the sudden weight of rent due in ten days.

I Went Back
I didn’t mean to.

But I drove to her street again.

Knocked.

No answer.

My stomach dropped.

I pushed the door open.

She was still in the recliner.

Gray. Pale. Smaller somehow.

“I turned the heat back down,” she whispered. “The bill scares me.”

She’d eaten half a banana.

Half.

In a country where billionaires launch rockets for fun.

I asked about family.

She mentioned her son, Eddie.

Said she didn’t like to “bother him.”

I found his number in a little address book.

When I called, he answered with one word:

“What.”

Suspicion.

Defensiveness.

Fear wearing anger as armor.

“She’s not fine,” I told him.

He came.