The night my husband Daniel was admitted to the hospital after a car accident, my world shrank to the sharp scent of disinfectant and the rhythmic beeping of machines. He had been on his way home from work when another driver ran a red light. The doctors said he was fortunate to survive, though recovery would take weeks. I practically lived at the hospital, sleeping in an unforgiving chair beside his bed and surviving on vending-machine coffee and constant anxiety.
That was when I became aware of the elderly woman in the neighboring bed.
Her name was Margaret. She appeared to be in her late seventies—fragile, with silver hair always carefully braided. Unlike us, she never had visitors. No spouse, no children, no bouquets on her bedside table. Meals brought by the nurses often went untouched. She would stare at the tray as though eating alone hurt more than being hungry.
On the second day, I asked if she wanted some soup. She looked surprised, then smiled and nodded. After that, I made sure she ate three times a day—extra cafeteria food or home-cooked meals when I went home to shower. We spoke softly while Daniel rested. Margaret never complained about her condition. Instead, she asked about me—my life, my part-time bookkeeping job, my marriage—and listened with a warmth that felt uncommon.
One afternoon, I asked why no one ever visited her. She hesitated, then said quietly, “Some people spend their lives building walls. In the end, those walls hold very well.”
Days passed. Daniel gradually regained strength. Margaret, however, seemed to fade.
The morning she was moved out of the ward, she asked me to lean closer. Her hand shook as she reached beneath her pillow and placed something in my palm—an old, worn banknote, creased and faded, worth almost nothing.