Author’s Note
And you’ll never see them — not the club, not HQ — knocking on a door down the street, checking if someone has enough bread or milk. You won’t see them sending birthday cards. Or checking in after a member quietly leaves. You won’t find care packages on doorsteps, or kind words handwritten in a Christmas card.
No, that kind of care doesn’t live in policy folders or press releases.
But I still send mine.
Every year.
To Josephine.
Because I know she’s still out there — still putting her last euro toward fees, still going without meals some weeks, still under a system that talks about inclusion but forgets about individuals.
The club might have taken away her key.
But they never took her place in my life.
Because support should never come with control.
And kindness should never need permission.