They called her “Madame Zada,” the strange woman at the dead end. Alone, wrapped in a thin blanket, she seemed forgotten. I only knew her as the woman who quietly accepted the meals I brought—lentil soup, rice, tea. She rarely spoke, once telling me, “You’re not like the others.” For four years I brought food, through grief, heartbreak, and double shifts. Neighbors asked why I bothered—she never even said thank you. But she didn’t need to.
Then one day, an ambulance came. “Natural causes,” the EMTs said. Hours later, I got a call: I was listed as her sole beneficiary. Her real name was Zada Delacroix—a once-renowned ballet dancer, choreographer, and investor. Inside her house, frozen in time, I found velvet curtains, photos of dancers, and a will leaving me everything: the house, vineyard shares, savings. A note read:
“Malina, your kindness was the only thing I trusted. I hope this makes your life a little softer.” I wept. Neighbors suddenly remembered her fondly. In her journals, I found pages about me—the girl with the food, carrying grief like heavy shoes.
I honored her by donating to a dance fund, quitting the diner, and opening her home as “Maison Zada”—a space for classes, books, and meals. She once told a student, “You don’t need many people. Just one who sees you.” She saw me. And now, I try to see others.
No kindness is ever wasted.