I walked into the bakery with an empty stomach and an even emptier heart. I was only eight years old, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a hot meal.
«Miss… could I have just a little piece of bread, even if it’s stale?» I asked, my voice shaky.
The woman looked me up and down and pointed to the door.
«Get out of here, you little beggar! Go earn your keep like everyone else!» she snapped, wiping the counter.
My throat tightened, and I started to back away, but a deep voice cut in.
«Excuse me, madam!» It was an old man who’d been shopping. «Can’t you see he’s just a child?»
«Well, his parents should look after him,» she huffed.
I hung my head, wishing I could vanish. But the man crouched down and put a hand on my shoulder.
«Don’t worry, lad. Come on, I’ll buy you something.»
That day, he took me home, gave me soup, a bed, and most importantly—a place where I didn’t feel like rubbish.
«I don’t have any grandchildren,» he said with a smile. «Fancy being mine?»
I bit my lip to keep from crying and nodded.
«Yes, grandad.»
Years passed, and that old man became my family, my strength, and my reason to study. He made me promise that one day, I’d help others the way he’d helped me.
Time flew, and one day, as a doctor, I was called to the hospital for an emergency. A woman was bleeding out in the operating theatre. When I walked in and saw her on the table, my blood ran cold—it was the baker.
As I operated, I remembered her shouting at me that day, but I also remembered my grandad’s warm hand pulling me off the streets. And then I understood.
Hours later, she woke up.
«You… you saved my life?» she asked, her eyes glistening.
I looked at her calmly.
«Yes, ma’am. And I did it because someone once believed I deserved a second chance.»
She burst into tears. I just smiled, because right then, I knew my grandad, up in heaven, was proud.