Today, while checking out at CVS, something happened that I can’t stop thinking about.

As I stood in line, an elderly man came through the door with a walker, moving slowly and carefully, each step an effort. He shuffled over to the counter and softly asked the cashier, “Do you have any toilet paper? My wife’s sick, and I’ve been looking all day.”

His voice was quiet, but his eyes were pleading. You could see the exhaustion on his face—he was tired, not just from walking but from carrying the weight of the day.

The cashier told him they were out, and I watched as his face fell. He looked like he was about to cry—not from frustration, but from helplessness. The kind that creeps in after a dozen small heartbreaks.

I couldn’t just stand there.

I walked over and gently asked if I could help him look. I told him I’d check other stores, and if he wanted to head home, I’d be happy to drop some off later. He was surprised, almost embarrassed at first, but grateful. We walked back to his car together—his steps slow, his shoulders heavy.

That’s when I saw her.

His wife sat in the passenger seat, pale and quiet, tethered to an oxygen tank. She gave me a weak smile. She hadn’t gotten out of the car because she couldn’t. He had gone in alone, determined to find something as simple—but as necessary—as a roll of toilet paper.

It had taken him that long just to walk from the car, ask, and come back empty-handed.

I can’t describe the lump in my throat.

It took me nearly an hour to find a pack of toilet paper. I checked a few stores and finally got lucky. I brought it back to their house—he gave me directions—and left it on their porch. He tried to hand me money, but I told him no, absolutely not.

We talked for a few minutes before I left. He told me they had no kids nearby. No family close enough to help. He said he felt like the world had forgotten about people like them.

And that broke my heart.

We’re living in strange, uncertain times. And when we feel uncertain, we tend to grab what we can. We stock up. We prepare. We think about ourselves and the people closest to us—and that’s understandable.

But today reminded me that there are people out there—elderly, vulnerable, sick, alone—who don’t have that luxury.
They don’t have the strength or speed to get to the store before the shelves are wiped clean.
They don’t have the money to stockpile.
They don’t have someone to lean on when the world gets heavy.

So maybe we can be that someone.

Not always. Not perfectly. But when we can.

If you’re out shopping and you see that last pack of something on the shelf, think for a second—do I need this today? Or could someone else need it more?

Today, a simple act of kindness wasn’t about toilet paper.
It was about dignity. About love. About not letting each other fall through the cracks.

Because sometimes, helping someone make it through the day is the most important thing you’ll do.

Even if it’s just with a roll of toilet paper. 🧻❤️

— Anonymous