The toys my kid brought to school never returned. She said a girl played with them and didn’t return them. I informed the instructor the parents were misraising the youngster! But she said, “You know, this child is going through something difficult at home.”
I was surprised.
The instructor wasn’t accusatory. She whispered, as if to explain something more than a lost pony or flashy headband.
I inquired what she meant, and she hesitated.
“She lives with her grandmother now,” she added. “Her mother died last year, and her father has been absent. Just her and her grandmother. Trying their best.”
I felt deflated.
I was unsure what to say. I nodded and went. While driving home, I remembered times my daughter was unhappy because someone didn’t tell her. And here I was, criticizing a five-year-old for keeping a toy longer.
I saw my kid doodle on the living room floor with crayons that night. Her world remained whole. Her room was filled with toys, warm dinners, and nighttime kisses. And I realized: not all kids are fortunate.
The following morning, I gently asked my daughter, “What’s the girl’s name?” Who plays with your toys?
She glanced up and whispered, “Lidia. She loves my unicorn.”
I grinned. “Would you like to lend her another toy tomorrow?”
She seemed bewildered. “But she didn’t return the first one.”
I know, darling. But she may need it now.”
My daughter nodded after thinking. “Okay. But I want to give her the pink-haired one. Definitely my second favorite.”
She gently packed the pink-haired unicorn into her bag that morning. I expected nothing in return. It felt right.
The instructor drew me aside during pickup a week later.
“Lidia’s been different lately,” she added. “Quieter. No, not sad. More settled. She said she sleeps with the unicorn every night.”
I grinned. I didn’t inform my daughter. That night, I embraced her tightly and cooked pancakes for supper.
Things changed between the girls over time. Became buddies. Real friends—not school playmates. They laughed harder. They lunched together. Group activities included holding hands.
Class birthday week followed. Every youngster brought balloons or cupcakes. We provided permission forms and party goodies. Lidia didn’t bring anything. A notebook-paper card she created that day arrived.
That night, my daughter said, “Lidia said she doesn’t have money for cupcakes.”
I answered, “That’s fine. She surrendered her heart.”
She then did something odd. She requested to use her savings to buy Lidia a birthday present. She kept $10 in a box beneath her bed.
We shopped together. She chose a little bracelet set. One half of its heart said “Best” and the other “Friends.”
Lidia gave her half the bracelet and wore the other on her birthday.
Lidia wept. Just a bit. I had never seen a youngster in that school grin that broadly.
Months passed.
As spring turned to summer, school was nearly ended. The instructor announced a final performance. Invited parents. Kids sang songs and dressed as butterflies, trees, and stars.
The week before the performance, I was called.
It was the instructor. “Lidia won’t return. Her grandmother’s ill. They’re relocating to live with her aunt in another city.”
Was quiet.
I hung up and sat with my kid. “I need to tell you something,” I said.
She glanced up at me, fearing bad news.
“Lidia must leave. She’s leaving your class.”
She was silent for a while. Then quietly, “Can I write her a letter?”
Together, we composed the letter. Drawing flowers and hearts, she wrote, “I love you, Lidia. My lifelong best friend.” They were photographed together on the school zoo excursion.
She was promised it by the instructor before leaving.
The following day, my daughter questioned, “Will I ever see her again?”
I provided my only honest response. Maybe not. But you’ll remember her. She’ll always remember you.”
Then time went on.
First grade. New classmates. New habits. More and more, we forgot Lidia. Life continued as usual.
Something changed in my daughter.
She was kind to timid or quiet youngsters. She provided nibbles for forgetful people. Someone taking a crayon and not returning it didn’t bother her.
She learnt something I couldn’t explain.
Years passed.
Moved to another neighborhood. New school, instructors. Her age was eleven. A little taller, smarter.
She ran through the door after school.
“MOM!” she said, gasping.
What’s it?
“You won’t believe this… Lidia attends my school!”
I blinked. “What?”
This is Mrs. Solano’s class. I saw her today! Her hair is shorter. I knew it was her. I said, ‘Are you Lidia?’ She responded (yes). Do I know you? After I uttered my name, she embraced me tightly!”
I was stunned.
Among all cities and schools, she was present.
Following that day, they became inseparable.
Despite being older and different, the friendship remained.
In the lost years, Lidia endured more. Her aunt worked long shifts when her grandma died. Though lonely, she never complained.
My daughter invited her to movie evenings. I saw them laughing on the sofa, heads leaned close, swapping popcorn and secrets.
My daughter asked me one night.
“Can Lidia stay weekend?”
Her aunt answered when I phoned. She’s grateful. Perhaps Lidia hadn’t smiled in months.
We had pancake breakfasts, ridiculous dance-offs, and backyard barbecues that weekend. Looking at them, I was thankful. For second opportunities. To rejoin.
My daughter took something from her drawer one Sunday night while packing Lidia’s luggage.
The second side of the “Best Friends” bracelet. She kept it for years.
She handed it to Lidia, who treasured it.
“I still have mine too,” Lidia remarked, taking the other half from her pocket. It was weathered but complete.
They held the halves side by side.
My throat clenched, so I stepped away.
Life reunited them.
But the narrative continued.
We had middle school. World became noisier, more complex. Friendships changed, but not theirs.
They joined the drama club. Helped each other through crushes, poor grades, and conflicts.
Then high school.
Lidia struggled. Her aunt became worse. Budget was tight. She sometimes went to school without lunch.
My kid made two sandwiches every morning without being asked. One for her. One for Lidia.
Together, they studied. Used the same college curricula.
Lidia got into her desired university her senior year but couldn’t pay the deposit. She grieved on our sofa one night, feeling that her efforts were wasted.
My kid did something secretly that week.
She created a tiny online fundraising. Shared their unicorn, bracelet, and reunion story.
It spread.
People gave. Others recalled childhood buddies. Some wanted to assist.
Within three days, Lidia had enough for the deposit, books, and supplies.
She entered college. She went.
The pledge was to call every Sunday. And they did.
They gathered for a weekend every year, wherever life brought them. Pancakes. Movies. Stories. It seemed like time stopped.
Years later, they’re adults.
My daughter teaches elementary school. A unicorn toy is on her desk.
Lidia, like her, is a social worker for grandkids.
I sometimes recall that kindergarten hallway day. I was ready to blame an unknown youngster.
But life has a greater lesson.
One never knows what others carry in their backpack—heartache, hunger, terror.
But kindness? That fits wherever. It persists.
That unicorn may have been misplaced in a toy bin. But the love behind it forged a permanent bridge.
One thing I’ve learnt from seeing them grow:
A little act of kindness may last. It may start with a missing toy.
If this story moved you, share it. Someone may be having a “missing unicorn” moment. They may also choose compassion.
❤️ Like, share, and remind someone today that simple acts may transform lives.
