At 13, I was so poor I never had lunch. A classmate noticed and started bringing me food every day. That same year, she vanished, and I never saw her again.

Fifteen years later, I was working at a police station when I saw her name scheduled for questioning. When she came in, I froze. It was obvious she had been crying for days.

She sat down and started answering questions from my colleague. Her husband had gone missing, and she was completely shattered. I made sure she didn’t see me. I didn’t want my presence to interfere with the investigation.

A few days later, the case was closed—her husband had left of his own will, moving to another country to start a new life. She was heartbroken and alone. I couldn’t let her go through this without support.

I reached out, told her who I was—that I was the classmate she had once helped. The moment she recognized me, we embraced. It was emotional, like reconnecting with a long-lost piece of the past.

Since then, I’ve visited her regularly, just to check in and make sure she’s okay. She was there for me when I had nothing—and now, I’m here for her.