That night, I sat at my kitchen table. Arthur’s notebook lay in front of me. I ran my fingers over the worn cover. Then I opened to a blank page.
For a while, I didn’t write anything. I just sat there, thinking about Arthur. Then I picked up a pen, and I started my own list.
*“April 3 — Paid Mrs. Greene back for babysitting the twins so I could finish school.”*
The words looked simple on the page. But they felt heavier than that. I closed the notebook gently.
Over the following months, it became a habit. Nothing big or dramatic, just small things. Covering someone’s bus fare. Helping a coworker who was behind on rent. Dropping off groceries for a family down the street. I didn’t tell anyone. Because I understood something now that I hadn’t before: It wasn’t about the amount. It was about the moment.
