I began to notice money missing from my wallet every time my daughter went out with her friends. At first, I thought I was just misplacing it, but when a twenty-dollar bill I left on my dresser disappeared, I knew something was wrong. I decided to follow her to see what was going on.
She walked through town, and I followed at a distance. She eventually stopped at an old, crumbling house. My heart pounded as I peeked through a window. Inside, I saw her kneeling beside three young children, sharing food from her backpack—juice boxes, crackers, and apples. Tears filled my eyes as I realized the truth.
That evening, I confronted her. She explained that she had met the children weeks ago and had been bringing them food whenever she could. “I didn’t mean to take your money,” she said, her voice soft. “I just wanted to help them.”
I pulled her into a hug, feeling a surge of pride. “I’m not mad,” I told her. “I’m proud of you.”
The next day, we returned to the house together, this time with bags of groceries. Watching her laugh and play with those children, I realized something beautiful. She hadn’t taken from me—she had given.
