When I was a boy, there was an old woman who lived at the end of our street. She was mean to all the kids in the neighborhood and never missed a chance to keep any ball that landed in her yard. She had two dogs, a poodle and a big German shepherd, and the shepherd seemed just as mean as she was.

One afternoon, while we were outside playing ball like always, she came out with a gun and started shooting into the air. Nobody was hurt, but the parents were furious and wanted to do something about it. Before things got worse, the kids came together and decided to try kindness instead. We baked cookies, picked flowers, and carried them to her house.

At first, she seemed surprised. Then she began to talk. She told us that many years ago, she had lost her own child while the child was playing outside in the street. Seeing us play there brought back painful memories she had never healed from.

The next summer, the whole neighborhood came to celebrate her birthday. She was so happy that she returned every ball she had collected over the years. After that, she was never the same. She was still quiet, but she was kinder, and we learned that sometimes anger hides a hurt that never got a chance to heal.