When I was five, my parents died in a car accident, leaving me alone in the world. I spent my childhood moving between shelters and temporary homes, never feeling like I belonged. But I found refuge in school, and I worked hard to build a better future.
Years later, I became a surgeon, dedicating my life to saving others. But there’s one memory from my past that I’ve never forgotten.
When I was eight, I got lost in the woods during a snowstorm. The cold was unbearable, and I was terrified. Just when I thought I wouldn’t survive, a homeless man appeared. He carried me to safety, bought me food with his last few dollars, and called the police before disappearing into the night.
Thirty years later, I saw him again on a crowded subway. I recognized him by a faded anchor tattoo on his forearm. “Is it really you? Mark?” I asked.
He looked up, and his eyes widened with recognition. “The little girl… in the storm?”
I insisted on helping him. I bought him a meal, warm clothes, and booked him a room at a motel. I wanted to help him get back on his feet, but Mark had other news. “Doctors say my heart’s failing,” he said. “But I’d love to see the ocean one last time.”
Before we could leave, I got a call from the hospital. A young girl needed emergency surgery, and I was the only available surgeon. Mark urged me to go. “That’s what you were meant to do,” he said.
I rushed back to the motel as soon as I could, but it was too late. Mark was gone.
I never got to take him to the ocean, but I made sure he was laid to rest by the shore. Thirty years ago, he saved my life. Now, I carry his kindness forward.
