I don’t even remember dozing off.
One second I was watching the stops crawl by, counting how many more ‘til we reached the shelter—
next second, her little head was on my leg, and mine was against the window.
She’s light like that.
Falls asleep fast, without warning, like the day finally just caught up with her.
I guess it caught up with me too.
I’d worked the early shift at the warehouse, then picked her up from the sitter’s,
then tried to hustle to the intake office before it closed.
They were full again.
Said maybe tomorrow.
So we rode.
The subway’s loud, cold, and smells like old rubber and strangers.
But when you’re exhausted enough, even that can feel like a bed.
I pulled her closer before we nodded off. Told myself I’d keep us both upright. Safe.
But sleep had other plans.
When I blinked awake, there was a note tucked under my arm.
Folded, written on the back of a receipt.
No name.
Just one sentence in sharp, all-caps pen:
“YOU’RE DOING BETTER THAN YOU THINK.”
And right below that—a phone number I didn’t recognize.
For a second, I thought maybe I was dreaming.
Or being pranked.
But when you’re hanging on by threads, even a few words scribbled in a hurry can feel like a lifeline.
I read it twice.
Then again.
She stirred in her sleep, mumbled something about pancakes.
I kissed her forehead and whispered, “We’re getting close.”
The next morning, after dropping her off at school (she still called it “school” even though it was just a daycare two churches were running together),
I borrowed the phone at the shelter and called the number.
I didn’t know what I was expecting.
Maybe a dead line.
Maybe someone confused.
Maybe a stranger who’d tell me they meant to leave that note for someone else.
But instead, a calm voice answered:
“Reentry Resource Line. How can we help you today?”
I froze.
The woman on the line must’ve heard the hesitation because she said,
“If you found a note on the subway, you’re in the right place.”
Her name was Aleah.
She used to work for the city.
Now she runs a grassroots network that helps parents—especially single ones—get stable housing, job leads, even small grants for transportation.
Turns out I wasn’t the first person to find one of those notes.
She and a small team leave them behind on purpose.
Hidden in libraries. Laundromats. Subway cars.
They call them “reminders for the overlooked.”
She asked a few questions.
I answered honestly.
Told her where I’d been sleeping.
How long I’d been trying to get off the shelter waitlist.
Where I worked.
What my daughter’s favorite breakfast was.
By the end of the call, she had two addresses, a contact at a family-first housing agency,
and a slot on a priority list I didn’t even know existed.
She said, “If you can get there by Tuesday, you’ll be interviewed for a room. No promises—but it’s a shot.”
And that’s all I needed.
A shot.
The twist?
That “room” turned out to be part of a transitional housing unit for working parents.
Small but clean.
Safe.
Ours.
There’s even a tiny kitchen with a stove that clicks before it lights.
She thinks it’s magic.
She made me tape that note—the one from the subway—on our fridge.
Says it’s like our lucky charm.
Last week, I found her sitting on the floor with her dolls, writing tiny letters on napkins.
I asked what she was doing.
She said,
“Leaving notes for people. Like the one we found.”
Here’s what I’ve learned:
Sometimes the smallest words at the right time can be the rope someone grabs onto.
A folded receipt.
A stranger’s kindness.
A number that leads to someone who sees you before you’re back on your feet.
You never know who needs to be reminded they’re doing better than they think.
You never know how far a note can travel.
If this story meant something to you, share it. Like it if you believe small kindness can change someone’s whole direction. And if you see someone asleep on the train— maybe leave a note. You just might be part of their next beginning.
