He was always on the same corner—rain or shine, winter or heat. His worn green hat and faded jacket barely stood out, but his eyes remained hidden beneath the brim. People passed by, dropping coins but never stopping. I noticed him for weeks, until the day I forgot my umbrella. The rain was relentless, soaking me through in seconds, but there he was, still holding his tiny puppy close, protecting it from the storm.

Something in me broke. I stepped under the awning, asking, “Can I get you anything?” He shook his head, but then, quietly, he spoke. “Her name’s Lucky. She’s all I got.”

He pulled out a letter—my dad’s letter. The one I never received, from a man I hadn’t seen in years. The letter spoke of regret, of missed chances, and the weight of silence between us. I handed it back, asking how he had it. Mac, the Vietnam vet, explained that my dad had trusted him to deliver it if something happened to him. He passed away last year, he said, peacefully, but with regrets about our strained relationship.

That rainy day marked the beginning of healing. I learned forgiveness is a choice—and sometimes, life leads us to the people who help us find it.