I had lived in my apartment building for almost six years when a new neighbor moved in next door. He was quiet and polite, the kind of person you barely notice. Then one day, he knocked on my door and asked to borrow twenty dollars until Friday. I agreed—it didn’t seem like a big deal.
Friday came, and he didn’t pay me back.
The next week, he asked again. This time it was forty dollars. He always had a reason—bills, work problems, emergencies. I kept giving him money, but I started to feel uncomfortable. The amounts were small, but it kept happening. After a while, I thought he was scamming me.
Then one evening, I saw his daughter at a grocery store nearby. She was about fourteen and looked exhausted. At the checkout, she tried to pay with coins. When she didn’t have enough, she put items back until she could only afford pasta. Watching her made my chest hurt.
I followed her home without really thinking about it. She went into our apartment building and opened the door to her family’s unit. Inside, there was almost nothing—no furniture, just blankets on the floor. Her younger sister was sitting there coloring.
Their father saw me and panicked. Instead of getting angry, I listened. He explained that he had escaped an abusive situation with his daughters. They left with nothing. He had a job, but his pay barely covered rent. He was ashamed to ask for help, so he borrowed money just to survive.
That night, I went home and cried.
The next day, I knocked on his door again. I didn’t bring cash—I brought groceries. I told him I wasn’t lending money anymore, but I wanted to help. No payback needed. He tried to refuse, but I insisted.
I also asked my friends for help. Within a week, people donated furniture, dishes, and beds. We brought everything over in a borrowed truck. When we carried the items inside, the father broke down crying. His daughters looked stunned, like they couldn’t believe it.
By the end of the month, their apartment finally felt like a home.
Two years later, he knocked on my door again. He handed me an envelope with every dollar he had ever borrowed from me. He had a stable job and was doing well.
I gave the envelope back and told him to donate it to a shelter.
He did.
And whenever people say you shouldn’t help others because they’ll take advantage of you, I think about that empty apartment, two girls sleeping on the floor, and a father who borrowed money because he didn’t know how to ask for help.