Her hands shook—not from fear, but from pure fatigue. I told her to climb in. She sat quietly, holding her rosary like it was her last anchor. After a few miles, I asked gently:

“Are you traveling or running away?”“I’m leaving a house that stopped being home.”

She offered me some corn cookies. “My grandson loved these… back when he still hugged me.” In that moment, it hit me: sitting beside me wasn’t just a passenger—it was a whole story the world had decided to forget.

I figured her suitcases held clothes or maybe a few keepsakes. But when she finally opened one, I was stunned.

Under old blankets and a rag doll were bundles of money wrapped carefully in plastic—so many the whole bottom of the suitcase was filled.