(I’ve recently hurt my knee and am wearing a brace that allows me to walk, but walking or standing for too long is painful, so I park as close to the grocery store as I can. As I’m getting out of my car, I notice a woman parked a few spaces down and across the aisle is glaring at me as she helps an elderly woman out of her vehicle. I force a smile to be polite, close my door, and lock my car up, then take off toward the store.)

Woman: *loudly* “Mom, look at that one! Bet she’s not even hurt. Stupid, lazy teenager. And look at her brand new car! I bet she’s never paid a dime on it! Entitled teenage brat.”

(I would usually ignore an idiot like her, but I’m in a bad mood and my knee is throbbing, so I whirl around as best I can and flip her off.)

Me: *shouting back* “Actually, I’m a spoiled 30-year-old housewife, with a three-year-old used car, not a spoiled teenager! Thanks for playing, b****, but you don’t win the golden Kewpie doll!”

(I turn and start for the store again as the elderly woman starts cackling gleefully.)

Elderly Woman: *loud enough for me to hear* “Serves you right for being a judgmental c***!”

My mother was seriously injured in a fall while on vacation, in a city on the far side of the country from where her family and friends live. I left the next day to be with her. I arrived after a six-hour flight, tired and scared, in a city I had never been in. I made it to the hospital and found the waiting room while they finished her surgery. Once there, I realized it was nine at night and I had no idea where I would be staying. I knew I had a few calls to make, and asked a woman nearby if I should step outside to do so. She smiled but didn’t say much.

After a couple of minutes, another woman walked in and came over. She said that was her sister and that she didn’t speak English. I tried to talk, but just lost it. Between sobs, I tried to explain why I was there and that I didn’t know where I was going to sleep or much of anything else. She gave me a hug, and then went to talk to the staff at the desk. She came back with one of them who assured me I could sleep in my mom’s room for at least a few nights, and that it was going to be okay. The first woman sat with me until I was calmer.

At this point I realized they were there for their own tragic reason. It turns out one of her brothers had been shot in the head while working at his store. They didn’t know if he would make it or not. But in spite of all that, she made sure that I was okay.

We saw each other during the week I was there. She never failed to smile and ask how mom was.

Thank you to a family of strangers who reached out during their own tragedy to help someone who needed it.

And thanks to four of Mom’s friends and family who took a week each and flew across the country to be there with her. Her case manager said she had more company than some patients who live in the area and have family close by.

(I’m minding my own business at the mall. A woman walks up to me.)

Woman: “You don’t need that!”

Me: “Huh?”

Woman: “How shameless! Stealing wheelchairs from people who need them!”

(I lift up my pant leg, revealing my red, atrophied leg. She starts sputtering.)

Me: “Also, this is my personal chair. The one I got through my insurance.”

(She quickly leaves. I call after her:)

Me: “Want to see the scars, too?”

(I am ten. My grandfather has cancer, and is dying. I am facing the true scope of mortality for the first time, and am deeply upset. One night, I stay up sobbing because I’m so terrified of death. My mother is trying her best to comfort me, but it’s not really working. She’s just saying anything that pops into her head at this point.)

Mom: “Sweetie, it’s okay! It doesn’t happen until the very end of your life!”

Me: “Oh. Okay.”

(I then calmly lay down and went to sleep.)

(I have an unusual allergy that is very severe. I discovered in second grade that I was allergic to oil pastels, and have since realized that my allergy is airborne if people use the pastels around me. The unlikeliness of the allergy and the severity of it often lead people to believe it’s fake. However, this instance really takes the cake. Keep in mind that this person is a friend of mine that I have repeatedly talked to about my allergy.)

Me: “Man, I was really upset in physics today.”

Friend: “Why?”

Me: “Someone moved the pastel picture and set it on a counter next to my seat. I wish I knew who it was. I might have gotten some pastel on me!”

Friend: “Ha ha, yeah. That’d be pretty annoying.”

Me: “I mean, they might have just not known, but I’m still pretty frustrated. I would have put it back where it was, except, you know, I might have died.”

Friend: *pauses for a moment* “Oh, I get it! You mean like dying from being annoyed!”

Me: “No, I mean that, if left too long on my skin, my throat would close and I could die. Haven’t I told you this, like, three separate times?”

Friend: “Oh, yeah…”

(Boy, am I glad that he’s not in art class.)