Two weeks. That’s all the time we had left before words like “management” and “monitoring” became, “We’ve done all we can.”
I was a single mother working double shifts at a roadside diner off the highway. Minimum wage. No savings. No safety net. I had sold my jewelry, my television, my grandmother’s old sewing machine, even my car, relying on borrowed rides and buses. I had applied for emergency assistance, medical grants, nonprofit aid, crowdfunding campaigns that barely moved. I prayed, even though I wasn’t sure who I was praying to anymore.
The check didn’t come with fanfare. Just a folded note and an auction receipt.
The note said the money was for my daughter’s heart and nothing else. That she deserved a full life. That I owed nothing in return.
The receipt listed a single item: a fully restored 1962 Harley-Davidson Panhead motorcycle.
The seller’s name was W. Thompson.
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