I raised my little sister alone and thought keeping her fed was enough. Then she spent all her lunch money on a birthday cake for a lonely boy at the hospital. The next morning, a black balloon and a red box appeared on our lawn, and everything I believed about love changed.
The morning after my little sister spent every coin she had on a birthday cake for a boy at the hospital, I opened our front door and found our lawn covered in balloons.
Dozens were tied to bricks and planted across the wet grass.
In the exact center stood one enormous black balloon. Under it sat a red box.
Della, my little sister, gripped the back of my shirt. “Syd, who is that from?”
Under it sat a red box.
I couldn’t answer. My stomach had already dropped.
A note was taped to the lid.
“You came to my window every day. Nobody else did. And nobody knew anything about me. Please open it.”
I’d raised Della alone since I was 19.
Our parents got lost while hiking 8 years earlier and never came back. One week, I was arguing with Mom about curfew. The next week, I was signing forms for Della with shaking hands.
I couldn’t answer.
By the time Della turned eight, we had a routine. She got the bedroom. I slept on the pull-out couch and worked breakfast shifts at a diner and nights in a pharmacy stockroom.
Della never complained. That scared me more than whining.
One Thursday evening, I was folding laundry while she sat on the floor, shaking an old mint tin full of coins.
“You’re eating lunch at school, right?” I asked.
Della froze.
“I’m eating parts of lunch, Syd.”
Della never complained.
“Parts?”
“The free parts.”
I set down her shirt. “Della.”
She sighed like a tiny, tired grandma. “Nobody dies from skipping canned peaches.”
“Why are you saving lunch money, monkey?”
She hugged the tin. “I have a project. A hospital boy.”
“The free parts.”
The hospital sat two blocks from her school. Della walked with the Keene kids and Mrs. Keene, who crossed them at the corner.
Still, my chest tightened.
“What hospital boy?”
“The one in the third-floor window. He watches us walk by.”
“You talked to him?”
“No. At first, I just waved.”
“At first?”
“You talked to him?”
“Today, he was outside,” she said. “In the garden. In a wheelchair with a green blanket. Nurse Gloria was with him, so Mrs. Keene said I could say hi.”
I breathed again.
“What did you say?”
“I asked if he was the window boy.”
“And?”
“He asked if I was the waving girl.”
A shy smile crossed her face.
“What did you say?”
“His name is Tobias. He turns 11 tomorrow. He likes dinosaurs and hates vanilla pudding.”
“You learned all that today?”
“He talks fast when someone listens.”
That line stayed with me.
I looked at the tin. “And the lunch money?”
“He said nobody was coming for his birthday.”
“Honey, his parents may have reasons.”
“He turns 11 tomorrow.”
“I know,” she said. “But he still looked sad.”
Then she opened her backpack and pulled out a small grocery-store cake and a dollar-store dinosaur with one crooked eye.
“I spent $11.40,” she said. “Every coin I had.”
My eyes burned. “You gave away all your lunch money?”
“I didn’t give it away. I used it.”
“For a boy you barely know?”
“You gave away all your lunch money?”
Her chin lifted. “I know him.”
“Waving at someone isn’t knowing them, Della.”
“Then how come I know he pretends not to cry when his mom leaves fast?”
I had no answer.
I pulled her into my arms.
“You can’t skip lunch to be kind,” I whispered. “Next time, you tell me. We figure it out together.”
“You’re always figuring out bills,” she mumbled.
I pulled her into my arms.
“We’ll do it properly,” I said. “We’ll go to the front desk. We’ll ask. If they say no, we listen.”
She pulled back. “So yes?”
“So maybe.”
Her smile nearly took me out.
The next afternoon, I left the diner with aching feet, picked Della up, and we walked to the hospital.
She carried the cake like it was glass.
“If they say no, we listen.”
At the front desk, I asked to see Tobias on the pediatric floor.
The woman typed, then shook her head. “Only approved visitors can go up.”
“Could you call Nurse Gloria?” I asked. “Please?”
Ten minutes later, Nurse Gloria came down.
“Hi, sweetie,” she said to Della. “And you must be Sydney.”
“Syd,” Della corrected softly. “People who love her call her Syd.”
“Only approved visitors can go up.”
Nurse Gloria smiled at me. “We can’t allow a regular visit, but Tobias is in the family lounge. Della can hand him the gift there, with me present.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Tobias sat in his wheelchair, green blanket over his lap. When he saw Della, his face lit up.
“You came inside,” he said.
Della held up the grocery bag. “I brought birthday stuff.”
His eyes dropped to the bag. “For me?”
“I brought birthday stuff.”