It was a chilly evening when I spotted them—a woman and a little girl sitting on a piece of cardboard outside an old grocery store in the heart of Manchester.
The woman looked exhausted, her arms wrapped tightly around the child as if shielding her from the biting wind. The girl, no more than five or six, clutched a threadbare stuffed bunny with one missing eye. In front of them sat an empty plastic cup with a few lonely coins inside.
I’d just bought groceries, but something about them made me stop. My chest tightened with pity. After a moment’s hesitation, I approached.
“Good evening,” I said softly. “Would you like something to eat? I’ve got food in my bag.”
The woman looked up, her weary eyes studying me cautiously.
“That would be very kind,” she whispered.
I pulled out a sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of juice from my bag. She accepted them gratefully, but it was the girl who caught my attention. She didn’t reach for the food. Instead, her big, curious eyes fixed on me. Then, in a small voice, she asked,
“Are you rich?”
The question took me aback. I glanced down at my clothes—just jeans and a jumper, nothing fancy.
“Not really,” I admitted. “Why do you ask?”
She pointed at my grocery bag.
“You bought all that without even thinking.”
I froze, unsure how to respond. Her words, so simple and honest, cut deep. Before I could reply, she added,
“Mum says we always have to think before buying anything. If we get food, we might not have enough for the bus. And if we take the bus, we might not eat today.”
My chest ached as if squeezed by a vice. The girl’s mother sighed quietly, brushing a hand over her daughter’s hair.
“She’s too clever for her age,” the woman murmured with a sad smile.
I crouched down to meet the girl’s eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Emily,” she said, offering a tiny smile.
I smiled back.
“Emily, do you like oranges?”
Her face lit up.
“I love them!”
I took an orange from my bag and handed it to her. She held it carefully, as if it were a treasure.
“Mum used to make tea with oranges,” Emily said proudly. “When we had a kitchen.”
I swallowed hard, fighting the lump in my throat.
“That sounds lovely,” I managed.
Emily’s mother shifted uncomfortably.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be a bother, but… if you know of a shelter… it’s hard to find somewhere safe to sleep.”
I nodded at once.
“Let me see.”
Pulling out my phone, I searched. After a couple of calls, I found a shelter with space for families.
“There’s a place just ten minutes from here,” I said. “They’ve got room for you, and they serve dinner.”
The woman exhaled in relief, her shoulders sinking as if a weight had lifted.
“Thank you. Really, thank you so much.”
“I can drive you there if you’d like.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“That would be a great help.”
We gathered their few belongings—a worn-out backpack and a couple of bags—and headed to my car. On the way, Emily chattered excitedly about what she’d cook when they had a kitchen again.
“Pasta with cheese, pancakes, spaghetti, and Mum’s orange tea!”
Her mother smiled faintly.
“Someday, love.”
When we arrived at the shelter, the staff welcomed them warmly. Before going inside, Emily turned to me, clutching the orange to her chest.
“I’m going to save it,” she said solemnly. “For our kitchen.”
Tears pricked my eyes, but I nodded.
“That’s a brilliant idea, Emily.”
Driving home, I couldn’t shake her words from my mind. To me, an orange was just a fruit I bought without a second thought. To Emily, it was a symbol of hope, a dream of better days. And with all my heart, I wished that one day, she’d brew her orange tea in a home of her own.
There’s no measure of wealth greater than the kindness we share when we have nothing left to give.
