A heartwarming moment when a 90-year-old resident of a nursing home recognizes me
When Vaughn chooses to volunteer at a nursing home to help pay for her college applications, she never imagined that she would like it as much as she does now. But what happens when an elderly woman claims to have known Vaughn in her younger years? And then gives her a message and a huge…?
The aroma of the nursing home is a mixture of medication and cleaner with a faint tinge of lemon. In contrast to the antiseptic medical odor that most people associate with hospitals, it has a pleasantly pleasant scent.
Now that I’ve been here long enough, I feel like I belong here—possibly even more so than any foster family I was in as a youngster.
My goal was to stay here for a few months to build my university resume and obtain some volunteer experience. After high school, I planned to work for a few years in order to build up enough money to pay for college and sustain myself.
“I understand that you need to work for a while, Vaughn,” Dorothy, the school’s guidance counselor, told me. But don’t wait too long to enroll in college. You’ll just put it off more the longer you wait.”
I agreed. I’d heard too many stories of ambitious people wasting their time and letting life slip by.
I therefore worked as a personal assistant for a mom-influencer. Even though the work was hard, she paid me well and allowed me to leave at 3 p.m. every day.
That’s how I ended up at the nursing home after those hours.
Three years had passed before then. Even at the age of 25, I continue to work here most days of the week. And the oddity?
I don’t regret that at all. With its creaky floorboards and reverberating passageways, this home has turned into a sanctuary.
But something happened last week that made me question almost all I knew.
On a Tuesday in the late afternoon, I was going about my everyday activities. Everyone was excited to get some sleep after finishing their early dinners and going to their rooms before getting together for bingo night.
I went to each patient’s room, rearranging pillows, smiling, and hearing the same old tales I’d heard a hundred times before. I then passed Mrs. Coleman’s door. This lovely woman was someone I had already met. She was ninety, serene, and sat by the window all the time, as if she were waiting for something.
or an individual.
I didn’t intend to stop by that day because Mrs. Coleman was on the side of the hallway and out of my hands. But as I walked by her door, she unexpectedly reached out and grabbed my arm.
She whispered, “I know you!” with piercing eyes.
At first, I assumed it was dementia. It’s not uncommon here. The residents frequently think I’m a former nurse or their granddaughter.
I smiled as I removed Mrs. Coleman’s hand from my arm and we approached her chair.
I tried to be gentle as I replied, “I’m sure you do, Mrs. Coleman.” I’m Vaughn, you remember? I have worked here for a while. I made you ginger tea several times.
She smiled.
She said, “I know.” That isn’t the case, though. I know you. You lived next door while we were neighbors. You were just a little girl then. Five or six years old, maybe.
I froze.
The person next door? That isn’t feasible. I barely remembered the names of my foster families, much less those of their neighbors.
But there was still something about her gaze that drew me in.
She responded, “You don’t remember?” as she leaned forward in her chair. Every year on my birthday, you used to come see me. You would sing to me, sweetheart. You would sit with my grandson, Soren. I will never forget your name or those stunning eyes you have.
Suddenly I felt lightheaded.
I wanted to tell her she must be wrong, but I shook my head. But there was a tug at the edges of what I remembered. It was a series of vague, dark images in the mind. a tiny kitchen. The sound of an old woman laughing, the warmth of birthday candles. Chocolate cake. Mint candies on a coffee table.
I felt anxious.
“I…” I started to say something. “Mrs. Coleman, I don’t really remember.”
Her expression softened, as if she had anticipated my reaction.
“You appeared so youthful,” she whispered. But I will never forget. You were the only one who arrived. We used to ask all of your siblings to join Soren for playtime. However, you were the only one who arrived. You were the only one each year.
I felt my throat tighten. Tears gathered cruelly in the corners of my eyes.
I knelt beside her, my hand still in hers. I was feeling things that I couldn’t explain. Mrs. Coleman reminded me of parts of my life that I had completely forgotten.
It’s unbelievable that I forgot about her. How could I have missed something so simple yet so important?
She continued, “I felt so alone.” However, Soren would ask his father to send him off more often after you moved in. I heard you two giggling all over the house while you were playing outside.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I apologize for forgetting.”
Mrs. Coleman’s eyes grew warm as she looked into mine.
“Don’t be sorry,” she said quietly, as if it were instinctive. “You were a young individual. And before I knew it, you were gone. I just thought you were moving to another family. Your foster parents were unable to provide me any information when I asked them where you were.
“I had no idea you were that concerned.” “I said.”
My lovely daughter, you were a child. But in ways that I sometimes find hard to understand, you saved my life.
I remained quiet for a long time. It had always seemed to me that I was moving through the world without anyone noticing. I went from one family to another, adjusting rooms and mattresses as soon as they felt comfortable.
But here was this strange woman who appeared to remember me.
Me.
Additionally, this was from a time in my life that I scarcely remembered. And I had made a lasting effect on her.
“Thank you,” I said out loud. “For keeping me in mind…”
She smiled tenderly.
“How could I not?” she said. For a short while, that is. But I dreamed about you as a child last night. Then I knew. It was you.
I felt a thousand times better when I went home that night. I made myself a bowl of noodles when I got to my small apartment.
Everything was different now. Someone knew me. The me before I became a grownup.
The next morning, my phone was vibrating on my nightstand when I woke up. Squinting at the screen, I reached for it. That was the notification from my bank.
$700,000 had been credited to my account.
When I woke up in bed, my heart was pounding. This had to be a mistake.
Who deposits so much cash into a stranger’s account? My mind was racing as I stared at the computer, trying to decide who I should call.
The bank? The police force? Someone?
But before I could take any action, my phone rang once more. The place was the nursing home.
“Can you come in early, Vaughn?” The head of the nursing staff asked. “Mrs. Coleman has been taken to the hospital.” She didn’t feel well last night and seems to have fainted. Before she goes back, she will be thoroughly observed.
Seldom do I remember getting into the car and driving to work. I had a thousand ideas running through my head by the time I arrived.
Coleman, Mrs. The money. Was it all a coincidence? What did all of this mean?
The staff gave me a small packet when I got to the nursing home.
“This was left for you, V, by Mrs. Coleman,” said Catherine, the nurse. “Last night, she told me to give it to you. I’m leaving because my shift is ended.
Inside was a brief, shaky handwritten note.
Use this for your dreams, sweetie. It’s something you deserve.
She did it. Coleman, Mrs.
I stood there, gripping the message, feeling the weight of what she had said. It was she who gave me that money. In some sense, she had fulfilled my dreams. Now I could go to college. I could become something. Someone.
I struggled to decide for a few days. In the end, I chose not to submit an application to the school. I was pleased to pay Mrs. Coleman a visit in the hospital.
Nobody else visited her. She was still in a coma and did not know who was around her. And on the fifth day she was there, she passed away in the middle of the night.
In the end, I chose not to submit an application to the school. Instead, I delivered a $50,000 check to the nursing home’s office.
“Use it, Miranda,” I instructed the manager. Fix the leaky roof of the dining hall. Renovate a space. Invest in a new television. Let’s make this place a better place to live.
I donated the majority of the funds to a charity that supports orphanages.
In order to assist pay for nursing school at night, I also saved a significant amount of money. Once I was qualified, I wanted to work at the nursing home properly. Moreover, full-time.
Mrs. Coleman seemed to be more familiar with me than I was.
I had an insight a few days later while I was standing outside her chamber, watching the sunlight filter in through the window.
Maybe this was my dream all along.
