A Debt of Kindness

The year I was dirt poor, I walked into the factory and let the gears mangle two of my fingers for my grandmother's thirty-thousand-dollar surgery.

The owner, his face etched with pity, offered me eighty thousand in compensation. Drowning in guilt, I only took the thirty.

Years have passed. My grandmother is long gone.

But then I saw the trending news. That same factory had burned to the ground. The owner was dead—a heart attack, they said.

His wife was missing.

Their twelve-year-old son had been sent to an orphanage.

I stared at the boy's helpless, terrified eyes on the screen, then at the pills I was about to swallow. I washed them down the drain.

Alright then... time to live again.

All for the sake of that thirty thousand.

1

Even after all these years, the sight of my own hand, the two missing fingers, could still summon a thick, choking wave of guilt.

But if I could go back, I know I’d do it again.

Because back then, I was out of options. Utterly and completely.

My grandmother found me in a dumpster on a snowy night. Without her, I would have frozen to death in the biting cold before my first sunrise. Now, she had stomach cancer, and the doctor said the surgery and follow-up treatments would cost eighty thousand dollars, minimum.

We sold everything. Our tiny, crumbling one-room apartment, the mismatched, worthless furniture inside—all of it. It brought in a little over fifty thousand.

We were still thirty thousand short.

“Let’s not do it, Tally,” she’d said, her voice thin as old paper. “I’ve lived a full life. I can’t have you sleeping on the streets because of me.”

I shook my head, my throat tight. “I’d rather sleep on the street than be without you, Nana. We… we have to do this.”

She pulled me into her arms, her sigh melting into a sob. We just held each other and cried, a single, desperate knot of grief in the cold, dark night.

We both knew what thirty thousand dollars was to us: an impossible, astronomical sum. Where could we possibly find that kind of money? She had no other family. She only had me.

And I didn't have the thirty thousand dollars that could save her.

But at nineteen, I had a boundless, reckless courage.

The moment I shoved my hand into the blur of the spinning gears, the pain was so blinding I nearly passed out. But through the haze, I saw the panicked, horrified faces of my coworkers, and in their eyes, I saw a flicker of hope.

Nana was going to be saved.

It was the only way. The only door I could find that led to her survival.

2

Mr. Henderson, the factory owner, was a good man. By the time he rushed to the hospital, my hand was already bandaged.

He knelt beside my bed, his brow furrowed with such genuine pain. He reached out, wanting to touch my mutilated hand, but hovered, helpless, not knowing where to put his own.

Finally, all he could manage was a heavy, heartbroken sigh. “Kid… you’re so young. What are you going to do now?”

I turned my head away, unable to meet his eyes.

I wasn’t a good kid.

I didn’t deserve his sincere compassion.

His wife, Anna, came to take care of me personally. She missed nothing. She would gently comb the tangles from my messy hair. She’d cut fruit into small, perfect bites, warm them slightly, and feed them to me one by one.

It was a mother’s tenderness, a gentleness I had never known. It was completely different from the love Nana gave me.

A coworker who came to visit whispered a warning in my ear. “Be careful. This is a classic gentle trap. They’re being nice now so they can pay you less in compensation later.”

A switch flipped in my head. I became guarded, suspicious. I started trying to refuse their kindness.

But they kept on, ignoring my deliberate coldness, tending to my physical needs and trying to soothe my spirit.

When I was discharged, Mr. Henderson and Anna drove me home themselves.

Nana cradled my hand, her palm holding the two stumps where my fingers used to be, and silent tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t speak, her whole body trembling with choked-back sobs.

In that moment, a sliver of regret pierced through me. Maybe this hadn’t been the right way.

The Hendersons were wiping their own eyes, looking around our bare, grim apartment. Nana’s skin had a sickly, yellowish tint; it was obvious to anyone that she was very unwell.

They placed eighty thousand dollars in cash on our small, wobbly table. Neat stacks of bills.

Nana shot up from her chair, her hands flapping in a panic, too flustered to form words. She could only look at me, her eyes wide with a silent, anxious question.

“This is the company’s compensation for Tally,” Mr. Henderson said softly. “Please, take it. We’ll also cover any future medical expenses.”

Shame washed over me, hot and heavy. I stared at the floor.

The amount was far more than I expected. I’d consulted a legal aid lawyer, and the figure he’d quoted was significantly lower. This was a small factory, the kind where the owner himself had to go out every day to drum up business. Every dollar was earned with sweat.

I was desperate for money, but… I couldn't be that shameless. I couldn’t take more than I was owed.

Assuming I had any conscience left at all.

“It’s too much,” I mumbled. “I can’t take all of it.”

Anna stroked my hair. “Don’t feel bad, sweetie,” she said, her voice a balm. “You have a long road ahead. Use this money. Learn a trade, something you can do to support yourself.”

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