The next morning, a firm knock interrupted our peace. A well-dressed man introduced himself as Thomas and asked if he could speak with Noah. He explained that he had been searching for him for years and carried a letter from a man named Harold Peters. Noah had no memory of the name, but he opened the envelope with shaking hands. The letter told a story from years earlier: an elderly man who had fallen outside a grocery store while others walked past, and a young boy in a wheelchair who stopped, helped him up, and waited until he was safe. Harold never forgot that moment of kindness. With no family of his own, he had decided to leave his home and savings to the person who once saw him when others did not.

Thomas confirmed the letter’s truth. A small house, modest savings, and a trust had been placed in Noah’s name. It wasn’t extravagant wealth, but it was security—something we had never known. When Thomas left, Noah and I sat in stunned silence, holding hands on our worn couch. Weeks later, we visited the house Harold had left behind. It was simple, lived-in, and welcoming, with a ramp at the front and sunlight pouring through the windows. Noah rolled into the center of the living room and whispered that he never imagined living in a home that couldn’t be taken away. I reminded him that we had learned how to survive harder things. For the first time in our lives, we weren’t just getting by—we were finally chosen by a future that felt like our own.