Good afternoon, dear, could you please tell me whats the cheapest you have? the old lady asks, as she does each time she visits the butchers.
Every week, at exactly the same time, a tiny, hunched woman slips through the door, her back bent by the yearsby life itself. She never makes a fuss. She doesnt press for more. She never argues. She simply stands before the glass display, eyes lingering not on the cuts of lamb or beef, but on something unseen, as though shes counting dreams rather than chops.
Slowly, she pulls out her pursea shabby little thing, threadbare at the seams, looking as careworn as she is. She opens it with quiet reverence, peering in with a sadness reserved not for those who pray for miracles, but for those who hope simply to get by.
She always asks, softly, her voice hushed with embarrassment, Do you have anything a bit cheaper?
The butcher knows her well. He knows she never asks for sirloin or a nice rack of lamb or the best piece. She always leaves with the cheapest itemschicken carcasses, humble bones, scraps, trimmings. Every time, as he sets the small bag on the counter, he feels a pang in his chest. Because it isnt just poverty he sees in hertheres also dignity. She does not beg. She pays. Even if it means walking away with little more than nothing.
One afternoon, on a whim, the butcher finds himself watching as she leaves the shop. She doesnt head for home. Instead, she meanders to a quiet alley behind the flats where passers-by hurry and dont look around. Here, she stops next to a damp, flattened cardboard box by a fence. With great effort and a wince, she kneels, knees creaking under her faded skirt. Gently, she takes out the bones and arranges them as though theyre flowers to lay at a grave.
Thats when they emerge: three cats, skinny and shivering, their eyes darting, their bellies hollow. Abandoned, longing for comfort, they begin to devour the meagre feast. The old lady smiles at them, soft and sad and beautiful, and strokes them with her gaze. Eat up, darlings, she whispers, I know what it is to have nothing.
The butcher stands frozen, the moment hitting him like a punch. Hed thought of her as a woman barely able to care for herself. But in that fleeting moment, before his eyes stands someone who has so little yet finds space in her heart for otherseven forlorn little souls the world forgot.
That evening, he speaks with neighbours. He learns she doesnt live alone, though she often seems to. At home, a little boy waits for her. Her grandson. Seven years old, orphaned. She looks after him, confides a neighbour. On her own. On just her pension. She buys him schoolbooks before she even gets her own medicine. She gives him all the best food, eats bread and tea herself.
And then the butcher understands something that cleaves his heart in two: she never bought bones out of preference, but because she couldnt afford much else. And stillshe shares.
The next day, shes back. Again, she stands in front of the counter, purse in hand, the same haunted look in her eyes. The butcher takes note of her cracked hands, cropped nails, her worn old coat. And those eyesthe eyes of someone who doesnt expect anything from life, only survives.
Before she can ask for something a bit cheaper, the butcher steps in. Madam today you wont be paying for anything.
She looks startled. What do you mean?
Today, I want to give you this, he says, and starts packing up proper meatthigh, breast, and a few lovely cuts.
Her hands tremble. No I I havent any money she stammers.
He shakes his head. I know. Thats exactly why. Then, quietly, so nobody else hears, he adds, I saw you yesterdaywith the cats.
She freezes. Her eyes fill instantly with tears, as if, for the first time ever, the weight of her soul is too much to bear. I I just feed them I feel sorrythey havent anyone…
The butcher clenches his jaw so his voice wont break. And do you have anyone?
She nods gently. A grandson, is all she says. Yet in those words lives a whole worlda lifetime of giving, of sleepless nights, of anxiety for tomorrow, of a love that fills the emptiness.
He places the bag on the counter and slides it to her. Take it. For your little lad.
She begins to crynot loudly, but with mute tears that sting and soften all the same. Why are you doing this? she asks.
Because you, the butcher replies, with almost nothing, still choose to be kind. And isnt that the hardest thing? The best people, it seems, are often those who suffer the most.
She clutches the bag to her chest, as if its the greatest gift shes ever received. I havent much, she whispers. But I have a heart. And if I can give, I will.
He watches her leave, eyes swimming with emotion. That day, he did more than sell meat. He gave a little hope, a little humanity. Maybe the world isnt changed by speechesbut by people who choose warmth over coldness. Through a small gesture, a little extra in a bag, a heart that insists, You are not alone.
If youve come this far, please: dont ignore the kindness you see around you. Today it may be hertomorrow, it could be your own mother.
If youve read to the end, I ask only this: spare a thought for every grandmother bearing her load in silence. Leave a and a God bless for all those who carry the worlds burdens unnoticed.
