When Vaughn decided to volunteer at a nursing home for university application hours, she never expected to enjoy it. But when an elderly woman claims to know Vaughn from childhood, everything changes.
The nursing home smells of lemon-scented cleaner and medication—oddly comforting compared to the sterile smell of hospitals. I’ve been volunteering here for three years, and it feels more like home than any of the foster homes I bounced between growing up.
I started volunteering to get hours for university applications, but now, at 25, I find joy in the creaky floors and echoing hallways. One Tuesday afternoon, while making my rounds, I encountered Mrs. Coleman, a 90-year-old woman who always sat by her window.
As I passed her door, she grabbed my arm with surprising strength. “I know you!” she whispered. I smiled, thinking it was dementia. “I’m Vaughn,” I said gently, but she insisted she remembered me as a little girl who lived next door.
A young woman at a nursing home | Source: Midjourney
I froze. I barely remembered my foster families, let alone their neighbors. Yet her eyes held a warmth that tugged at something deep within me. “You came over on my birthday every year,” she recalled. “You’d sing and bring joy.”
Memories flooded back—a tiny kitchen, laughter, birthday candles. I felt lightheaded. “I’m sorry I forgot,” I said, tears forming in my eyes.
“You were a child,” she replied. “But you saved me in ways I can’t explain.” Her words resonated, filling a void I hadn’t realized existed. Someone remembered me.
The next morning, I woke up to a notification: $700,000 had been deposited into my account. Shocked, I wondered if it was a mistake. Before I could act, I received a call from the nursing home. Mrs. Coleman had been taken to the hospital and slipped into a coma.
When I arrived at the nursing home, the staff handed me an envelope from Mrs. Coleman. Inside was a note: “Use this for your dreams, sweet girl. You deserve it.” She had given me the money.
Instead of applying to university, I visited Mrs. Coleman in the hospital. Sadly, she passed away days later. I chose to donate $50,000 to the nursing home to improve residents’ lives.
I kept some for nursing school, wanting to work at the nursing home full-time. Mrs. Coleman had known me better than I knew myself.
As I stood outside her room, sunlight filtering through the window, I realized: maybe this was my dream all along.
