Lying to conceal his suffering, a homeless, crippled flutist gives up his wheelchair, his only source of support, for an 8-year-old boy who is unable to walk. After five years, the boy comes back with a gift that will make all the difference in the world.
When I first saw the youngster, I was playing in the downtown plaza where I always be.
I was employed at a factory once. I was in my mid-forties and at first assumed it was just aging, but as I began to have trouble at work, I realized I needed to visit a doctor.
“… chronic condition that will only worsen over time, I’m afraid,” the doctor told me. “Especially with the work you do. There’s medication you can take to manage the pain, but I’m afraid there’s no cure.”
I was stunned. I spoke to my boss the next day and begged him to move me to a different role in the factory.
My employer, however, shook his head. “I’m sorry, you’re a good worker, but the company policy says we can’t hire someone for those roles without certification. The higher-ups would never approve it.”
They gave me my wheelchair as a gift on my last day of work, and I’ve loved it ever since.
“Mama, listen! It’s so beautiful!”
I opened my eyes to see a small crowd had gathered, including a weary-looking woman holding a boy of about eight.
“Can we stay a little longer?” the boy asked, tugging at his mother’s worn jacket. “Please? I’ve never heard music like this before.”
She adjusted her grip on him, trying to hide her strain. “Just a few more minutes, Tommy. We need to get you to your appointment.”
“But Mama, look how his fingers move! It’s like magic.”
“We can’t afford crutches or a wheelchair,” she explained quietly. “So I carry him everywhere. The doctors say he needs physical therapy, but…” She trailed off, the weight of unspoken worries visible in her eyes.
I realized what I needed to do after recalling my last day of work and the transformative gift I received from my coworkers.
Before I could doubt myself, I grabbed my wheelchair’s arms and forced myself to stand. I faked a smile despite the pain shooting through my hips and back.
“Take my wheelchair,” I said. “I… I don’t really need it. It’s just an accessory. I’m not disabled. But it will help your boy, and you.”
“Oh no, we couldn’t possibly…” the mother protested, shaking her head.
“Please,” I insisted. “It would make me happy to know it’s being used by someone who needs it. Music isn’t the only gift we can give.”
Tommy’s eyes grew wide. “Really, Mister? You mean it?”
“I don’t know how to thank you. We’ve asked for help so many times, but nobody…”
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“Your smile is thanks enough,” I said to Tommy, who was already experimenting with the wheels. “Both of your smiles.”
Then came the day that made all the difference.
A shadow landed on my cup as I was playing an old folk tune that my grandmother had taught me.
I noticed a well-dressed teen standing in front of me with a lengthy package under one arm when I looked up.
“Hello, sir,” he said with a familiar smile. “Do you remember me?”
“Life has a funny way of working out,” he said, sitting beside me on the bench.
“A few months after you gave me your wheelchair, we learned that a distant relative had left me an inheritance. Suddenly, we could afford proper medical treatment. Turns out my condition was treatable with the right care.”
“Your mother?”
“She started her own catering business. She always loved cooking, but she never had the energy before. Now she’s making her dream come true.” Tommy looked at me then and shyly held out the package he was carrying. “This is for you, sir.”
I unwrapped the brown paper and gasped. Inside was a sleek flute case.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” I muttered. “This is too much.”
“No, it isn’t. I owe my happiness to you,” Tommy said.
“The wheelchair didn’t just help me move. It gave us hope. Made us believe things could get better.”
That night, back in my basement room, I opened the flute case with trembling fingers. On top lay a handwritten note:
“PAYMENT FOR THE PAIN YOU HAVE EXPERIENCED ALL THESE YEARS BECAUSE OF YOUR KINDNESS. Thank you for showing us that miracles still happen.”
For hours, I sat there with the message in my hand, recalling how painful every step had been since I had given up my wheelchair.
However, I also recalled Tommy’s grin, his mother’s appreciative tears, and their now-changed lives.
“One act of kindness,” I whispered to myself as I watched the light dim through my basement window. “That’s all it takes to start a chain reaction.”
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