I’ve been selling eggs at the town market for nearly twenty years. It all started after my husband’s stroke. With our savings depleted and his pension barely enough to pay for his medication, I turned to the only thing I had left: my chickens.
Every morning before dawn, I collected their eggs—still warm, their shells smooth and speckled—and gently placed them in two old wooden crates. Then, holding my scarf tightly against the morning chill, I walked back along the same cracked sidewalk to the open-air market.
My spot was always the same: near the bench by the old fountain, where the smell of bread from the bakery mingled with that of fresh herbs and coffee. The regulars knew me by name. «Good morning, Madame Jeanne!» they called.
And I smiled, replying as usual: «Fresh eggs today! My daughters have worked hard!» » It wasn’t much, but it was honest work—and every coin meant another day’s worth of medicine for my husband.
But that morning—oh, that damned morning—everything changed. The air was crisp, the sun weak, and business was slow. I’d just sold a dozen eggs to a young mother when I noticed him—a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, maybe twenty at most, strutting through the crowd with the arrogance of someone who’s afraid of nothing.
Everyone knew him. The kind of firecracker who never works, never learns, doesn’t care. He stopped right in front of my stall, a smirk on his face. «Hey, Grandma,» he said. «How much are the eggs?»
«Three euros a dozen,» I replied quietly. «They’re fresh, laid this morning.» He laughed. «Three?» I’m taking them all for one.» I shook my head, trying to remain polite. «Sorry, darling. I can’t. It’s cheaper than what I paid for the food.»
His smile faded. «So I’ll take them anyway.» Before I could react, he swept my table away with a sharp gesture.
Crates tumbled. Dozens of eggs shattered on the sidewalk, the yolks bleeding between the cobblestones. I screamed—not in fear, but in helplessness.
The waiter stood over me, laughing, as I tried to salvage what I could. «Please,» I begged. «No. My husband is sick. I need…»
He kicked the second crate. People stopped and stared at me. No one moved. Not a soul.
That’s when I saw him.
A man in a dark gray suit, standing a few stalls away. He hadn’t come from the market—too clean, too calm. His hair was perfectly combed, his shoes polished. He had the quiet authority of someone used to being listened to.
He walked straight toward us. «Put down the cash register,» he said, his voice low but assured.
The boy turned around with a smirk. «Who do you think you are, old man?»
The stranger didn’t answer. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek black wallet, and handed me a wad of bills—more than I’d earn in a month.
«I’ll buy everything you have,» he said. «Even the broken ones.»
My mouth trembled. «I… I can’t accept this…» «You can,» he said softly. «You’ve earned it.» »
For the first time in years, I felt seen—not as an old egg seller, but as a person worthy of kindness.
The crowd began to murmur. The boy shifted uncomfortably, but the stranger wasn’t finished.
He looked him straight in the eye. «Do you think breaking what you can’t afford makes you powerful?» he said softly.
«Let’s show everyone who you really are.»
The young man mumbled something, turned to leave, but the stranger picked up his phone.
«I’ve already called security.»
Within minutes, a burly man in a dark coat appeared—the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be understood. He took the boy firmly by the arm.
The market exploded—whispers, gasps, a few cheers. «It’s about time someone stopped him,» someone said.
«Serves him right,» another added.
When the troublemaker was finally led away, the stranger turned to me. He smiled—not a cold, pitying smile, but one filled with warmth.
«My grandmother sold eggs,» he said softly. «She raised me after my parents died. She worked hard so I could study. I swore I’d never forget what it means to work hard.»
Tears blurred my vision. «So she must be proud of you,» I whispered.
He laughed softly. «I hope so.»
That day, he didn’t just buy my eggs; he gave me back something I had long lost: faith. Faith that decency still existed, that kindness
