It was an ordinary day at work. I was mopping near the mall’s food court when I bumped into a man, spilling his coffee all over his expensive suit. I braced for anger, already apologizing. Instead, he froze, staring at me with wide eyes.
“Miss Lana?” he whispered.
My heart skipped. No one had called me that in years.
Suddenly, I recognized him. Jordan. The quiet foster boy who used to linger after class, helping me sweep floors at the school where I once worked as a cleaner. The boy who shared his heartbreak with me, who I made sure never went home hungry.
Memories came rushing back—cookies slipped from my lunch bag, afternoons spent helping him with math, the way his eyes searched for belonging.
Now here he was, a grown man in a tailored suit, looking at me like I was someone who mattered.
“Jordan?” I whispered.
He smiled. “You changed my life, Miss Lana.”
In that moment, all the heartbreak, all the years of struggle, felt worth it. My kindness had come full circle.
