My neighbor once knocked on my door, eyes red and hands shaking, and begged me for $200. She said her little boy needed medicine and she was short. I barely scrape by myself, juggling bills and praying my card doesn’t decline at the grocery store—but I gave it to her anyway. She promised she’d pay me back as soon as she could.

Weeks passed. Then two months. Not a word. No knock. No envelope. Not even a thank-you text.

Instead, tonight I heard music and laughter thumping through our thin walls. Kids shouting, chairs dragging, that unmistakable “party” sound. I sat there on my worn couch, staring at the ceiling, feeling something hot and ugly rise in my chest.

So she can’t pay me back, but she can throw a party? Really?

I marched over and knocked on her door, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. I was ready. I had a speech planned—about respect, about honesty, about how poor people can’t afford to be generous if they’re going to be used.

She opened the door, cheeks flushed, hair pulled back, eyes wide with surprise.

We just stared at each other for a beat: me, seething; her, startled.

Then she stepped aside.

Behind her, a dozen kids were packed into the living room. Balloons were taped to the walls, some already drooping. The cake on the table was a little uneven, icing smudged at the edges, but in big, shaky letters it said: “WELCOME HOME, CALEB” and underneath, “YOU’RE GOING HOME!”

I spotted him almost immediately—her son. He was thinner than I remembered, his hair just starting to grow back in patchy tufts, but his smile was huge. He was holding a paper cup and laughing at something another kid said.

The anger inside me deflated like a punctured balloon.

That money hadn’t gone to some fake emergency. It hadn’t been a lie. It had paid for his chemo meds and treatments I’d never even heard of. The party wasn’t some careless splurge—it was a celebration that her little boy was finally out of the hospital and could sleep in his own bed again.