It happened so fast, I didn’t even have time to react. One second, I was making a left turn, rubbing my eyes, lost in my own head about work. The next, there was a loud thud—and my heart nearly stopped.
I hit someone.
I slammed the brakes and jumped out, my hands shaking. Lying on the pavement was an old woman, her gray hair wild, a small gash on her forehead. She was conscious, thank God, but groaning.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurted, kneeling beside her. “Are you okay? I’ll call an ambulance—”
“No, no,” she murmured. “Just… help me up.”
I wasn’t about to argue. I helped her into my car and sped to the hospital, breaking every speed limit I could get away with. She didn’t have a phone, no emergency contacts. No family. So I stayed. Took the day off work, sat in that stiff waiting room chair, and waited.
Finally, a doctor came out and told me she was stable. Minor injuries. “You can see her now.”
I walked in, nerves in knots. She was sitting up in bed, her head wrapped in gauze, sipping water.
“I am so, so sorry,” I started, feeling that guilt claw at me. “I don’t know how I—”
She raised a hand to stop me. Then, to my shock, she smiled.
“You just gave me a chance,” she said softly.
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes glistened, and she let out a small laugh. “If you hadn’t hit me, I wouldn’t be here right now. And the doctors just found something I never would’ve known about in time.”
I stared at her, my stomach twisting. “Found… what?”
She just patted my hand, her smile never fading. “It’s not your concern, dear. The thing is, you saved my life. I’ve got it from here.”
But I wasn’t going to let it go like that. She was a proud, strong woman, but she had no one to rely on. Her husband was gone, her only son was living overseas, and she didn’t want to worry him.
I wanted to be that someone she could rely on.
We began talking. I had the day off, so I stayed by her side. By the end of the day, she accepted my offer to help her with her problems. I found out she lived nearby, so it was easy for me to take her to the doctor. Months passed, and she had two surgeries. I helped her with every trip to the hospital, picked up her meds, and talked to her doctors to help her understand everything that was about to happen. She used to call me her clumsy guardian angel. I liked that nickname.
The day before her third and last surgery, she had a surprise visit. Her son, accompanied by his wife and kids, came to see her and be by her side. She was shocked—she never told her son about her condition, but I did. I found him on Facebook and messaged him. I kept him in the loop about her progress while he arranged some time off to come visit.
“You shouldn’t have come. I didn’t want you to worry,” she said to her son.
“I know you didn’t, that’s why I didn’t scold you for not telling me,” he answered in a warm voice. “We’re here for you, and as soon as you can travel, I want you to come live with us.”
Her eyes welled up, and for the first time since I met her, she looked truly at peace. She reached for my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You gave me back my family,” she whispered. “I’ll never forget that, my clumsy guardian angel.”
Neither would I.
It started with a mistake—a moment of carelessness on my part. But in the end, it led to something greater. A second chance, not just for her, but for all of us.
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