That’s right, Rochelle confirmed, pulling out two pieces of wheat bread for the toaster. And remember, not too much pepper. Nia finished with a grin. She’d memorized exactly how Mr. Witmore liked his breakfast. As they worked, Relle hummed softly, an old gospel tune her own mother used to sing. The sound filled their kitchen with warmth, mixing with the growing light of dawn that was starting to peek through their curtains.
“Mama,” Nia said, carefully folding the eggs onto a plate. Why do you think Mr. Whitmore lives all alone in that big house? Rashelle’s hands paused briefly as she wrapped a banana in a paper napkin. Sometimes people carry heavy things in their hearts, baby. Sometimes being alone feels safer. She reached for the clean dish towel they used to wrap the breakfast.
But that’s why kindness matters so much. It reminds people they’re not really alone, even when they want to be. Na asked, watching her mother’s careful movements. Especially then, Relle’s voice was gentle but firm. Remember what I always tell you about kindness. It’s a duty, not a favor, Nia recited, standing a little straighter.
She loved the way her mother’s eyes crinkled with pride whenever she remembered these important lessons. Together they wrapped the breakfast carefully, the warm plate of eggs and toast, the banana and a paper napkin, all bundled in the clean white dish towel. It was like wrapping a present every morning. Nia thought.
Now go on, Roshelle said, handing the package to Nia. straight there and straight back. The morning air was cool on Nia’s face as she walked down their street. Most houses were still dark, but she could see a few kitchen lights clicking on. Other families starting their days. Mr. Whitmore’s house was at the very end, set back from the others.
It was a big house, but it looked tired, like it needed someone to love it. As she approached the porch, Nia noticed Mr. Witmore was already in his usual spot, sitting in the old wooden rocking chair. He always seemed to be waiting, though she never told him exactly when she’d come. “Good morning, Mr. Whitmore,” she called out softly, climbing the creaky steps.
The old man’s face softened at the sight of her. “Good morning, Miss Nia.” His voice was quiet, like he wasn’t used to using it much. She handed him the breakfast bundle, and he accepted it with careful hands. But today was different. Instead of his usual quick thank you, he looked at her face for a long moment.
Nia noticed his eyes seemed shinier than usual, almost like he might cry. “Is everything okay, Mr. Witmore?” she asked, concerned. He blinked rapidly and tried to smile. “Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, dear. This is very kind. Something in his voice made Nia want to give him a hug, but she remembered her mother’s rules about boundaries.
Instead, she gave him her brightest smile. You’re welcome. Enjoy yourbreakfast. As she turned to leave, she heard his rocking chair creek, [music] and his soft, God bless you, child, followed her down the steps. That evening, after dinner and homework and her favorite TV show, Nia got ready for bed. As she brushed her teeth, she thought about Mr.
Witmore’s strange look. That morning, she wondered if maybe he was lonely, or if something had made him sad. Relle came in to tuck her in, smoothing the purple comforter around her daughter’s shoulders. “Did you say your prayers?” “Almost,” Nia said, folding her hands. She added a special prayer for Mr.
