The Cashier Who Slipped Me a Note

At the bottom of the bag, under the bread, was the tin of soup I had put back — and a note on register paper, folded small: “Your groceries are taken care of. You reminded me of my grandma. She raised me. Have a wonderful night. — M.” Tucked inside the note was the receipt. She had paid for all of it. On a cashier’s wages.

I cried at my kitchen table, and then I did something about it. I went back Tuesday and asked for the manager — the poor girl went white when she saw me pointing at her — and I told him, in front of the whole front row of registers, exactly what kind of employee he had. Her name is Maya. She got a little award last month. Her grandmother, I have since learned over tea, is very proud.

People say kindness is dying out. I am here to tell you it is alive and working a register on weekday evenings. Has a stranger ever caught you when you were at your lowest? Tell me in the comments — and share this so Maya’s kind of kindness gets the attention the ugly stuff always gets.