My seven-year-old granddaughter found a diamond ring at the grocery store and gave it back to its rightful owner. The following morning, a stranger appeared at our front door and declared, “There’s something you need to see. And you need to see it right now!”

“Excuse me?” I asked, stunned.

“I drove past your small house three separate times over the last few years,” Arthur revealed.

“Three times?” I repeated, completely floored.

“I sat in my car and saw your leaking roof,” Arthur confessed tearfully. “I saw a little girl playing in the yard wearing a winter coat that was far too small for her.”

I stared at the broken old man in total silence.

“I’d sit alone in my parked car and think to myself, what could I possibly say to her?” Arthur explained. “Should I say, ‘Hello, I’m the monster who didn’t open the front door for your parents’?”

“You should have said, ‘Hello, I’m your grandfather,'” I told him firmly.

“I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it,” Arthur whispered.

“Then why send your driver Frank running after Natalie at the store yesterday?” I questioned him.