I’d been sorting unpriced items at my small-town thrift shop when I pulled a boxed bra from storage—and found a thick, unmarked envelope tucked behind it. Curious—and nervous—I slipped it into my bag during lunch break. Inside was $8,000 in cash.
Nobody asked about the missing box afterward, and I never heard any inquiry, suggesting the donor never realized—but now I carried that burden. Part of the money helped me buy a car so I wouldn’t have to walk to work anymore. Yet each mile I drove reminded me of the secret I kept. Did I do right? Or was this theft in disguise—justified by need? That moral tug continues to haunt me long after the sale ended.
