There I was—sitting on a cold train station bench, rain soaking through my coat, shoes squelching, hair stuck to my forehead. But despite being drenched, I wasn’t miserable.

Because my heart was warm. Overflowing, actually.

All thanks to my daughter, Téja.

A few weeks ago, she asked me a question that caught me completely off guard:
“Mummy, can we start taking the train to school more often?”

I blinked at her. “Why, sweetheart? You know I don’t mind driving you. I would’ve loved being driven to school every day when I was your age.”

She hesitated, then said quietly, “Well, there’s a girl in Year 7 who walks to school alone. Even though other girls take the train, no one really talks to her or walks with her. I’d like to walk with her.”

My heart cracked open a little.

Of course I said yes.

What started as just the two of them walking together quickly became something more. Every morning, I began noticing a few more girls from the younger years waiting for Téja as we stepped off the train. One became three. Then five. Now there’s a cheerful little crowd—six, sometimes seven girls—gathered each day, waiting for her with bright eyes and eager steps.

They chat. They laugh. They walk. And none of them are alone anymore.

And then today happened.

This morning, the rain was relentless—torrential, unforgiving, the kind of rain that makes you want to crawl back into bed. I thought, surely we’d skip the train today.

But Téja came into the room, raincoat in hand, saying, “Mummy, we’ve got to hurry—we’re going to miss the train.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Téja, it’s pouring!”

She looked at me and simply said, “I know, but they’ll be waiting for me.”

I tried to reason with her. “They might be getting lifts to school today too.”

She paused. “Maybe. But what if they’re not? It’s only rain. I can’t let them down.”

I had no words. Only pride. Deep, aching pride.

We rushed to the station, water pooling in the corners of our eyes and shoes. And there they were—three girls, waiting in the storm. Hair damp, uniforms sticking to their legs, but their faces lit up the second they saw her. They beamed. They waved. They fell into easy conversation, completely unfazed by the downpour.

I stood quietly off to the side, watching them walk together—shoulder to shoulder, laughter cutting through the gray morning—and my heart nearly burst.

Then my youngest, who had been quietly observing the whole exchange, looked up at me and said, “Téja’s such a lovely girl, Mummy. I want to be like her when I grow up.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and whispered, “Me too.”

Because kindness doesn’t have to be loud.
It doesn’t need a grand gesture.
Sometimes, it’s just showing up. Even in the rain.
Especially in the rain.