On a chilly evening, I spotted them—a woman and a small girl sitting on a piece of cardboard outside an ageing grocery shop in the heart of Manchester.
The woman looked exhausted, her arms tightly wrapped around the child as if shielding her from the biting wind. The little girl, no older than five or six, clutched a tattered teddy bear missing an eye. In front of them sat an empty plastic cup with nothing but a couple of coins inside.
I’d just finished my shopping, but something about them made me pause. A pang of pity gripped me. Hesitating only a moment, I approached.
“Good evening,” I said softly. “Would you like something to eat? I’ve got some food in my bag.”
The woman lifted her gaze, her tired eyes studying me warily.
“That would be very kind,” she murmured, barely audible.
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 held my attention. She didn’t reach for the food. Instead, her wide, curious eyes fixed on me. Then, in a delicate voice, she asked:
“Are you rich?”
The question caught me off guard. I glanced down at my clothes—plain jeans, a warm jumper, nothing extravagant.
“No, not really,” I admitted, taken aback. “Why do you ask?”
She pointed to my shopping bag.
“You bought all this without even thinking.”
I froze, at a loss for words. Her statement, so simple and honest, cut deep. Before I could reply, she continued:
“Mum says we always have to think before we buy anything. If we get food, we might not have enough for the bus. And if we take the bus, maybe we won’t eat today.”
My chest tightened like a vice. The girl’s mother sighed quietly, smoothing her daughter’s hair with a bitter smile.
“She’s too clever,” the woman said. “Too clever for her age.”
I crouched down to meet the girl’s eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Emily,” she answered with a shy smile.
I smiled back.
“Emily, do you like satsumas?”
Her face lit up.
“I love them!”
I pulled a satsuma from my bag and handed it to her. She took it as carefully as if it were a treasure.
“Mum used to make tea with satsumas,” Emily declared proudly. “When we had a kitchen.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing myself to stay composed.
“That sounds lovely,” I managed.
Emily’s mother shifted awkwardly.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be a bother, but… if you know of a shelter… we’ve been struggling to find somewhere safe to sleep.”
I nodded right away.
“I’ll look.”
Pulling out my phone, I made a few calls and soon found a shelter nearby 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, relief softening her weary expression.
“Thank you. Really, thank you so much.”
“I can give you a lift if you like.”
She hesitated but then nodded.
“That would be a big help.”
We gathered their few belongings—a worn-out backpack and a couple of carrier bags—and walked to my car. During the short drive, Emily chattered excitedly about all the things she’d cook once they had a kitchen again.
“Pasta with cheese, pancakes, spaghetti, and Mum’s satsuma tea!”
Her mother gave a wistful smile.
“One day, sweetheart.”
At the shelter, the staff welcomed them warmly. Before stepping inside, Emily turned to me, gripping her satsuma tightly.
“I’m going to save it,” she said solemnly. “For our kitchen.”
Tears threatened, but I held them back and nodded.
“That’s a brilliant idea, Emily.”
As I drove home, her words stayed with me. To me, a satsuma was just a fruit I bought without a second thought. To Emily, it was hope—a promise of better days. And with all my heart, I wished that one day, she’d brew her satsuma tea in a home of her own.
Sometimes, the smallest things remind us of how much we take for granted—and how much a single act of kindness can mean.
