**Diary Entry**
Last year was especially tough. As a single mum with three kids, I worked non-stop, counting every penny just to get by—school fees, groceries, rent, and that old car of mine, which rattled like it was held together with sticky tape. Every pothole felt like its last. I knew something had to change.
A brand-new car was out of the question—pure fantasy on my budget. So I started hunting for a second-hand people carrier. Reliable, roomy, and cheap.
After weeks of scrolling through listings, one ad caught my eye. No flashy claims, a fair price, decent photos. A bloke named Ben swore the car was in great shape, never been in a crash. I was sceptical—too many sellers stretch the truth—but I went to see it anyway.
Ben met me at his doorstep, a tired-looking man in his forties with a warm smile. The car sat in the drive, and honestly, it looked better in person. Clean interior, fresh smell, no worn-out seats. A few scratches, but nothing major.
He explained his family had outgrown it—baby number four on the way meant upgrading. I took it for a spin; the engine hummed smoothly, brakes solid. Oddly, it felt *right*, like it was meant to be ours.
Papers signed, cash handed over, and suddenly I was driving home in disbelief. For the first time in ages, I breathed easier. The kids burst into cheers when they saw it, clambering into the back, already dreaming: *”Can we go to the park?” “Mum, can we visit Gran’s?” “Can we all see a film now?”*
Then came the real surprise. While rummaging through the glovebox, I found an envelope tucked under old receipts. A sticky note on it read: *”For the next owner.”* My stomach dropped. Who leaves a letter for a stranger?
Inside was a short note, but it hit me like a punch:
*Dear new owner,*
*I know how hard life can get. Been there myself. Don’t know why you chose this car, but you’re not alone. This people carrier was our safe place during rough times. Hope it brings you as much warmth as it did us. Take care of it—and yourself. Better days are coming.*
I sat there gripping the paper, tears running down my face. It wasn’t just a note—it was a lifeline from someone who’d never met me. Like Ben *knew* I was hanging by a thread, not just broke but broken. That I hadn’t felt safe in years. And those words… they were hope, folded into an envelope.
Next morning, I rang him. He recognised my voice straightaway.
*”How’s the car? Everything alright?”*
*”Perfect. But… I found the letter.”*
A pause. *”You did?”* His voice softened.
*”I just—thank you. It came when I was ready to give up. It reminded me I’m not alone. That even strangers can pass along a bit of strength.”*
He exhaled quietly. *”Glad it reached you. Wrote it during my own worst days. Wanted the next owner to know—you get through it. Things change. You’ve just got to believe.”*
We talked longer—about life, hope, kids, how fear creeps in but quitting isn’t an option.
I’ll never forget that letter. It changed me. A reminder kindness isn’t dead. That even a battered old car can carry someone else’s heart.
Now it’s more than transport. It’s where we laugh, bicker, sing off-key. And every time I turn the key, I think of Ben—who left a note in a glovebox and handed me a little light to keep.
**Lesson:** The smallest kindness can be a torch in someone’s darkest tunnel. Pass it on.
