It was a slow day at the bakery.
The kind where you stare out the window, waiting for the bell above the door to chime. We’d already sold out of the fancy stuff—croissants, eclairs, lemon bars. All we had left were a few day-old cookies and some crumbling muffins.
Then the door opened.
A boy walked in. Maybe 9 or 10. Shirt two sizes too big. Shoelaces dragging. Hair messy, but clean. He stood quietly at the counter, eyes scanning the shelves.
I smiled. “Hi there. Can I help you?”
He pointed to a chocolate chip cookie in the case. “How much is that one?”
“Fifty cents,” I said gently. “But it’s a little old.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins—mostly pennies and nickels. Slowly, carefully, he counted them out onto the counter.
“Can I still buy it, even if it’s old?” he asked.
I paused. “Of course you can.”
As I placed the cookie in a brown paper bag, he hesitated. Then looked up and asked quietly:
“Do you maybe have a marker? I want to write something on the bag.”
I nodded and handed him one. He wrote three words. And those three words nearly broke me.
He finished writing, folded the bag carefully, and hugged it to his chest like it was treasure.
I couldn’t help but ask, “Is the cookie for someone special?”
He nodded. “My mom. She hasn’t smiled in a few days. I thought maybe this would help.”
I looked at the bag after he left.
On the front, in crooked black letters, he had written:
“For when you’re sad.”
Just that.
I stood there behind the counter for a long time after he left. Thinking about the way a small boy with almost nothing still knew the power of giving. The power of showing up with whatever he had in his pockets… just to make someone else feel loved.
The next day, I printed out a sign and hung it in the window.
“Need a cookie but short on change? Just ask. This one’s on us.”
Because that boy reminded me—
You don’t need money to give.
You don’t need a lot to be kind.
You just need to care.
