Sam walked out of the bathroom and stretched. “I’ll be right out here when you’re done Mrs.Greenhaus.” Looking up, she wondered ‘If this is supposed to be their home, why do they insist on having these harsh fluorescent lights in every room?’ She walked over to the bed and began straightening the covers. A bright crocheted blanket was rested on top. It was a beautiful mosaic of color, and a last remnant of Mrs.Greenhaus’s once agile fingers. “I’m done, Sam.” Mrs.Greenhaus called from the bathroom.
“Perfect timing. I just finished making your bed.” Sam moved quickly into the bathroom and assisted her in wiping, and dressing before lifting her frail, elderly body into the wheelchair. Mrs.Greenhaus had just reached her 91st year of life and it showed in her body. Her hair was gray, her joints were swollen, and her skin was fragile. Any slight bump against her bed or wheelchair usually resulted in a ghastly skin tear. Which occurred more frequently due to the haste of employees than anything.
Apple Orchards nursing home was poorly managed, and most of the residents did not receive the care they required because of it. The nurses and aides were overworked and often had 30 patients per pair. Sam had been working a 12 day stretch herself, and overtime each day on top of that. She was tired in her bones, muscles, and mind, but not her heart. She had grown so fond of the residents, she coped with the extensive hours for their sake.
“I’d like to go sit with Roger for a while now.” Mrs.Greenhaus said in her small, delicate voice.
“Of course.” Sam smiled and wheeled Mrs.Greenhaus into the room next to hers. Her husband Roger was completely immobile, unable to move any part of his body on his own, save his fingers. Sam moved their wheelchairs close together. Mrs.Greenhaus reached out and took her husband’s hand. They sat there everyday without saying a word. It was enough for them to enjoy each other’s familiar company in silence.
A call light blinked in the hall. Sam went to the room and knocked. “Hello Mrs.Barker, what can I help you with?” Sam adored Eleanor Barker; a 70 year old woman with alzheimers. Though she had difficulty remembering things, and was often confused, her heart was still full of love and kindness.
“Hmm, what dear?” Mrs.Baker asked. “Oh dear, how are you?” Eleanor pressed her hands together and rested them against her smile. “I’m glad to see you. While you’re in here do you think you could read some of my book to me? I feel down today.”
“Of course.” Sam smiled at Eleanor before walking over to the dresser and grabbing the small black notebook from the drawer. Sam sat in the chair opposite Mrs.Baker, and opened the notebook. “This entry says ‘November 12th 2020.’ It’s from Charles.”
“Oh Charles! He’s such a good boy. Just like his dad. I miss him, he was such a good man.” Mrs.Baker smiled wistfully, turning her head toward a picture of her husband and 4 children on her night stand. “What date is that from, dear?”
“It says November 8th, 2020.”
Eleanor glanced at her calendar which read ‘March 12th, 2021.’ and clucked her tongue. “Oh that was months ago, read me the most recent one.”
“This is the newest one Mrs. Baker.” Eleanor looked up in surprise at Sam, and opened her mouth to protest before her surprise moved into sadness. She nodded at Sam. “Alright then.”Sam gently pat Eleanor’s hand comfortingly before opening the small black notebook once more and continuing.
“It says, ‘Mom, today we came to visit you and took you out to lunch. Little Jenny really enjoyed seeing you. She’s got your eyes, and everytime I look at her, I am reminded of you. We went to the Daily Diner, the one you used to take us to as kids. You ordered a burger and fries. You gave Jenny most of your fries, and I think that made a big impression on her four year old psyche. We love you and will start coming to see you more often. -Charles.’ Do you want me to read another?” Sam asked.
“Uh, no. No that’s fine. Could you help me get into bed? I think I’ll take a nap.”
Sam helped Mrs.Baker into bed and left the room. She felt heartbroken for not only Eleanor, but all the residents whose families rarely stopped in to visit.
Sam’s feet were heavy as she thumped up the drive to her one bedroom rental house. She was pulling the door open when a package dropped on her foot. Someone had stuck it inside the screen door, but she hadn’t ordered anything. She made her way inside to examine the parcel. There was no address written anywhere on it, only her name, in blocky upper case letters. She went inside and ripped the top off before dumping the contents out onto her couch.
Stacks of money flopped onto her couch, along with a small black notebook containing only two words that read “Good work.” Sam felt a knot in her stomach as the inevitable questions poured through her mind. ‘Where did this come from and what do I do now?’ She debated her own mind on turning it over to the police, donating it to charity, and keeping it secret. She resigned herself to use it, but to keep its existence a secret.
The money amounted to $20,000.00. More money than she had ever seen or imagined having at one time. She burst into laughter, while springing up from her couch and dancing around her small living room. She grabbed the black notebook and jotted down some ideas on what to do with the money. She thought of taking an extensive backpacking trip through Europe. Or using the money as a down payment for a house.
“Twenty thousand seems to be the perfect amount for a wild adventure, or something lasting and practical.” She said to herself. Suddenly an idea struck her so profoundly it brought tears to her eyes. She would use this money to go back to school. She would invest in herself and fulfill the dream she’d pondered many times. The dream to own her own residential care facility and cater to the residents, instead of the profits. Sam tucked the notebook and the money under her bed before falling into a pleasant slumber.
The next day Sam woke up giddy. She went into work and informed her supervisor that she was going back to school and would have to adjust her hours. Many residents inquired about her elated attitude and she happily explained she would be going to college. Finally she made it to Eleanor’s room, ecstatic to share the news with her most cherished charge.
“Knock, knock!.” Sam said, rapping on Eleanor’s door.
“Come in!” Eleanor called in her sweet, weathered voice. Sam entered the room beaming, but stopped just short of exclaiming her good news when she noticed a tall man in the room speaking with Eleanor. Sam recognized him from Eleanor’s pictures as one of her sons.
“Oh, excuse me. I didn’t realize you had a visitor, I’ll come back later.” Sam said as she began backing out of the room. The man interjected Sam’s exit.
“No, I was just about to go.” He bent down and hugged his mother. Eleanor turned to Sam and smiled that bright smile of hers.
“You look happy! Did you get a visitor too?” Eleanor asked.
“Maybe from an angel!” Sam exclaimed, as the man walked slowly around her and headed for the door. “I’m going to college Mrs.Barker! I’ve been wanting to for so long, and now I finally can!”
The man turned back around at the door and looked at Sam before speaking. “I knew you’d do something good with it.” She stood dumb struck, questions hung on her lips but didn’t form into words. Instead all she managed to utter was “You?” His bright chuckle as he closed the door behind him was his only reply.
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What Floats When No One Carries You
Some pain never shows itself. It doesn’t bleed. It doesn’t bruise the skin. It simply lives inside you, quietly—like something floating beneath the surface of water. Present, steady, unseen. I think I am something like that. Floating. Not because I’m light—but because sinking would mean stopping. The house was silent when I woke up that morning. Not peaceful silence. The kind that feels unfinished. My mother’s room door was closed. My father had already left for work. On the table sat a cup of tea, cold and untouched, probably left there from the night before. I had to go to school. That part of the day always felt heavier than it should have. My foot still hurt. The doctor had called it a “minor injury,” the kind that heals on its own. People love the word minor. It makes pain sound optional. Like something you can simply ignore if you try hard enough. But pain doesn’t work that way when you have to walk. “Just take the bus,” they said. Buses cost money. And money isn’t always something you have when you need it. So I walked. The air was sharp with cold. Each step sent a reminder up my leg that I wasn’t okay, even if I looked like I was. I tried not to limp. People notice weakness more than they notice pain. Cars passed. People passed. Faces buried in phones, conversations, laughter. No one asked if I was alright. And that’s the rule of the world, I think—you’re invisible until you fall. Halfway there, I stopped near a small frozen pond. The surface was quiet, almost glass-like. Beneath it, something moved slowly. A jellyfish drifted just below the ice, its soft colors muted by the water. It wasn’t swimming. It wasn’t sinking. It was simply… floating. I stood there longer than I meant to. Watching it felt strangely familiar. It moved because the water moved it. No direction of its own. No resistance. No struggle anyone could see. I thought, Maybe this is what surviving looks like when no one carries you. School was loud, but I felt distant from it. Sitting hurt. Standing hurt. Thinking hurt. My body and mind seemed to argue with each other all day. The teacher asked a question I knew the answer to. I didn’t raise my hand. Silence had become easier than speaking. When no one truly listens, words feel like wasted effort. During lunch, everyone gathered in groups. I sat near the window, staring out toward the pond again, the way light reflected off its surface. I remembered when I was younger—when my mother used to walk me to school, holding my hand tightly like she was afraid the world might take me away. Back then, the road felt shorter. Back then, pain didn’t follow me everywhere. Back then, I didn’t feel like I had to prove I deserved to exist. Time changes everything. Except the expectations. On the way home, snow began to fall. My foot had gone numb, but I kept walking. Stopping felt dangerous. Like if I paused too long, I might not start again. The sky was heavy and gray. Each breath came out like a small cloud. I thought about how strange it was that pain could feel so lonely even when you’re surrounded by people. When I reached home, the silence greeted me again. I dropped my bag and sat on the floor. That’s when the tears came—not suddenly, not dramatically. Just quietly. Like they had been waiting all day for permission. I didn’t try to stop them. People think strength is loud. They think it looks like confidence, or bravery, or winning. But sometimes strength is just continuing. Continuing to walk. Continuing to show up. Continuing to float. No one sees how heavy that can be. The next morning, my foot still hurt. But something inside me had shifted. I realized I wasn’t weak for struggling. I wasn’t broken because things were hard. I had been surviving without support, without rest, without being asked the simplest question: Are you okay? And I was still here. That mattered. Later that day, someone finally noticed. “You look tired,” they said. Not accusing. Just observant. For once, I didn’t smile automatically. “I am,” I said. The world didn’t collapse. They didn’t walk away. They just nodded—and listened. It wasn’t a solution. It didn’t fix my pain or my situation. But it reminded me of something important: Being seen doesn’t require being loud. It requires being honest—with the right people. I still smile sometimes. But now, I let it come naturally. I let it leave when it needs to. I don’t force strength anymore. I don’t pretend pain doesn’t exist just to make others comfortable. I’m learning that floating isn’t failure. Sometimes, floating is survival. And maybe that’s enough—for now.
By Inayat khanabout 19 hours ago in Humans
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