I sat down on my small couch, Peanut hopping into my lap, sensing my distress. My grandfather? The kind man who tipped me every Sunday without fail? All along, he’d been right there, quietly supporting me from the shadows.

“But why wouldn’t he just tell me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe,” she replied softly, “he thought approaching you directly would cause more trouble than good. Or perhaps he was waiting for the right moment. It seems like he just wanted to help, in the only way he felt he could.”

The weight of it all hit me at once. The mysterious, kind man who left $100 bills every week wasn’t just some generous stranger. He was family—a connection I didn’t even know I had.