I Hired A Homeless Man For $10 A Day Out Of Pity. Three Years Later, I Found An $85,000 Check Tucked Inside His Favorite Book. Who Is This Man Really?
I found the check by accident. It was tucked inside an old copy of East of Eden that Robert had been reading during his lunch breaks. The check was made out to cash for $85,000.
My hands were shaking as I stood there in the back room of my bookstore, surrounded by towers of used paperbacks and the smell of old paper. Robert had worked for me for nearly four years.
Four years of sleeping in the storage room on a cot I’d bought from Goodwill. Four years of wearing the same three flannel shirts I’d picked up at the church donation center.
Four years of telling me he was grateful for the $10 a day I could afford to pay him, plus meals and a roof over his head. And here was a check for $85,000 dated just two weeks ago.
I heard the bell above the front door chime. Robert was back from his afternoon walk to the park.
He always went at 3:00, the same time every day. He said it helped him clear his head.
I slipped the check back into the book and placed it on the shelf, my heart pounding. Let me back up. Let me tell you how this all started.
I suppose you’re wondering why a 62-year-old woman running a failing bookstore in Portland, Maine, would hire a homeless man to work for her in the first place. It was a Tuesday morning in October four years ago.
I’d arrived at the store early like always, fumbling with my keys in the pre-dawn darkness. That’s when I saw him.
He was a man, maybe in his late 50s, sitting against the brick wall next to my shop door. He had a backpack, a sleeping bag, and that look in his eyes that I recognized.
It was the look my husband had before he died: tired, defeated, like the world had taken everything and there was nothing left to fight for.
“Morning,” I said.
He nodded, didn’t speak.
“You’ve been here all night?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll move along. I know you’re opening up.”
There was something about his voice: educated, polite. This wasn’t a man who’d been on the streets his whole life.
I should have just opened the door and let him leave. But my daughter’s words from our phone call the night before were still ringing in my ears.
“Mom, you need to sell that bookstore and move down here to Florida with us.”
“You’re 62 years old, living alone in that big empty house, running a business that barely breaks even.”
“Dad’s been gone for three years. It’s time.”
Maybe I was being stubborn. Maybe I was being stupid. But something in me just snapped.
“Can you lift heavy boxes?” I asked him.
He looked up, surprised.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Can you show up on time?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I can’t pay much. $10 a day cash, but I’ll feed you, and there’s a storage room in back with a bathroom. You can stay there if you need to.”
“In exchange, you help me run this store: organize books, help customers, keep the place clean. Deal?”
He stared at me for a long moment, then he stood up and extended his hand.
“Robert. Robert Chen.”
“Margaret Walsh,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Welcome aboard.”
That’s how it started. My daughter Sarah was furious when I told her.
She drove up from Boston the following weekend, marched into my store, and took one look at Robert organizing the mystery section. She pulled me into the back room.
“Mom, are you insane? You hired a homeless man? You’re letting him sleep in your store? Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?”
“He’s been here a week, Sarah. He’s polite, he’s hardworking, and he hasn’t stolen a single thing.”
“You don’t know anything about him. He could be anyone. He could have a criminal record. He could—”
“He could be someone who needs help,” I interrupted.
“Someone who fell on hard times. Someone who deserves a second chance.”
Sarah’s eyes filled with tears.
“Mom, I worry about you. Ever since Dad died, you’ve been different, making impulsive decisions. I just want you to be safe.”
I softened and pulled her into a hug.
“I know, honey. I know. But I’m okay, really. And Robert, he’s a good man. I can tell.”
She didn’t believe me, but she left shaking her head. Over the next few months, Robert became indispensable.
He had this incredible memory for where every book was shelved. Customers loved him.
He could recommend the perfect novel for anyone who walked through the door. He fixed the broken shelf in the classic section, repaired the leak under the bathroom sink, and even reorganized my entire inventory system.
He never asked for more money and never complained. When I tried to give him a raise after six months, he refused.
“The $10 is more than enough, Margaret. You’re already doing too much for me.”
“But Robert, you work eight hours a day, sometimes more. $10 isn’t—”
“I don’t need money,” He said quietly.
“I need this. I need purpose. I need to wake up knowing I have somewhere to be, something to do. You gave me that. The money doesn’t matter.”
I didn’t understand it then, but I let it go. My friends started asking questions.
My book club met at the store every Thursday night, and they’d see Robert closing up. They would see him heading to the back room with his dinner, usually leftover soup or a sandwich I’d made.
“Margaret, how long is he going to stay there?” Linda asked one night.
“As long as he needs to,” I said.
“But don’t you think—I mean, shouldn’t he be trying to get his own place, get back on his feet?”
“He’s getting back on his feet right here,” I said firmly.
But privately, I wondered. Was I helping him, or was I enabling him?
Was this arrangement keeping him stuck? I pushed the doubts away.
Robert was happy. I was happy. The store was running better than it had in years.
That was enough. Then came the financial trouble in year three.
The big chain bookstore opened 15 minutes away. Online shopping was killing small businesses like mine.
My sales dropped by 40% in six months. I started dipping into my savings just to make rent.
Then I started missing mortgage payments on my house. I didn’t tell Robert. I didn’t tell Sarah.
I just kept showing up every morning, kept opening the store, and kept pretending everything was fine. But it wasn’t fine.
The bank called. I was three months behind on my mortgage.
They were starting foreclosure proceedings. I needed $12,000 immediately, or I’d lose my house.
It was the house where I’d raised Sarah and where I’d spent 40 years with my husband. It was where every corner held a memory.
I sat in my office staring at the notice, trying not to cry. I was 61 years old, about to lose my home, running a business that was slowly dying.
That’s when Robert knocked on the door.
“Margaret, you okay?”
I quickly wiped my eyes.
“Fine. Just tired.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“You’re lying. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Margaret,” His voice was gentle but firm.
“I’ve worked for you for three years. I know when something’s wrong. Tell me.”
So I told him. The mortgage, the foreclosure, all of it.
I told him I didn’t know what I was going to do. He nodded slowly.
“How much do you need?”
