I stepped into the bakery with an empty stomach and an even emptier heart. I was only eight years old and couldnt remember the last time Id had a warm meal.
“Maam could I have a bit of bread, even if its stale?” I asked, my voice trembling.
The woman looked me up and down, then pointed at the door.
“Get out of here, you little beggar! Go find work like the rest of us!” she snapped, wiping the counter with a sharp flick of her cloth.
A lump rose in my throat as I shuffled backward, but a deep voice cut through the silence.
“Excuse me, madam!” An old man, mid-purchase, frowned at her. “Cant you see hes just a boy?”
“Well, his parents ought to look after him,” she huffed.
I stared at my shoes, wishing I could vanish. But the man knelt and rested a hand on my shoulder.
“Dont fret, lad. Come on, Ill buy you something.”
That day, he took me to his homebowl of soup, a bed, and, most of all, a place where I didnt feel like rubbish.
“Never had grandchildren,” he said, smiling. “Fancy being mine?”
I bit my lip to keep from crying and nodded.
“Yes, Grandad.”
Years slipped by, and that old man became my family, my strength, my reason to study. He made me promise that one day, Id help others the way hed helped me.
Time whirled past. Then, as a doctor, I was rushed to the hospital for an emergency. A woman was bleeding out in surgery. When I entered and saw her on the table, my blood ran coldit was the baker.
As I operated, I remembered her shouting, but also Grandads warm hand pulling me from the streets. And then I understood.
Hours later, she woke.
“You saved my life?” she whispered, eyes glazed with tears.
I met her gaze, calm.
“Yes, madam. And I did it because someone once believed I deserved a second chance.”
She broke down sobbing. I only smiled, because right then, I knewGrandad, up in heaven, was proud.
