It started with a simple act of kindness.
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My son, Leo, is seven years old. He's the kind of kid who brings home injured birds, shares his lunch with the new student, and cries when he sees someone sad on TV. I've always been proud of him, but I've also worried that his soft heart might get bruised by a world that isn't always kind.
Last Tuesday, it was pouring rain. The kind of rain that soaks through jackets and turns sidewalks into rivers. Leo and I were walking home from the library when we saw her.
A pregnant woman, maybe eight months along, standing under a bus shelter with nothing but a thin cardigan. Her arms were wrapped around her belly, and she was shivering.
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Leo stopped. He looked at her. Then he looked at me.
"Mom, she's going to get cold," he said.
Before I could respond, he shrugged off his backpack, opened his red umbrella, and walked over to her.
"Here," he said, holding it out. "You can have mine."
The woman looked down at him. Her face softened. "Are you sure, sweetheart?"
He nodded. "I have a hood. And I'm almost home."
She took the umbrella. Her eyes glistened—from rain or tears, I couldn't tell.
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