“Nothing.”
“You gave an old woman one last moment of joy,” she said, hugging me gently.
Weeks later, I got a call. Harriet Thompson had passed. She left me a letter and a small gift: a silver locket with her husband’s photo.
“She wanted you to have it,” the lawyer said.
Before I could respond, her grandson burst in, furious. “Why is he here? He’s just a cab driver.” They accused me of manipulating her and contested the will.
In court, I simply told the truth about that quiet night drive. A hospice worker confirmed Harriet was of sound mind. The judge honored her wishes. The locket was mine.
Outside, I opened it—two young lovers, smiling forever. It wasn’t about value. It was about memory, love, and a simple act of kindness that meant the world.
