I just wish they understood me.
Near closing time, I was sweeping under a lift when my broom hit something solid.
It was a worn black leather wallet.
I opened it, expecting a few bills and cards—but instead, I saw thick stacks of $100 bills.
I froze.
It was more money than I’d had in my account in years.
For a moment, I imagined what it could do for us.
Rent was due in three days. The electric bill was overdue. My daughter needed new shoes—hers were worn through.
This money could fix everything… at least for a while.
Then I saw the ID.
An older man—late 70s. Thin gray hair. Tired eyes. His name was Gary.
Inside was also a folded note with an address and phone number.
I closed the wallet, my hands shaking.
What was I supposed to do?
I locked it in my toolbox and finished closing the shop, my heart pounding like I’d done something wrong just by finding it.
