The snow was still falling when we first started clearing our neighbor’s driveway. She was in her seventies, living alone, and too proud to ask for help. So we didn’t ask permission – we just showed up before dawn whenever it snowed, working quickly before she might notice.
For four years, this was our secret ritual. Until the morning she caught us, standing in her robe with a knowing smile. “Come inside,” she said. “I’ve got banana bread.” Over that unexpected breakfast, Feli (we finally learned her name) shared stories about her estranged son and the granddaughter she hadn’t seen since she was a toddler.
What began as neighborly snow removal blossomed into something deeper. My husband started mowing her lawn, our daughter took piano lessons from her, and Feli became part of our family. When she finally worked up the courage to visit her son after thirteen years, we never imagined we’d be following her to Nevada after her stroke, meeting the family she’d missed so dearly.
After she passed, we were stunned to learn she’d left us her house – not because we needed it, but because she wanted to thank us for seeing her when others had looked away. Now, whenever we help another neighbor in secret, we think of Feli and the extraordinary power of small, quiet kindnesses.
