In our region of the United States, it is wise to regularly inspect the area around and beneath your car to ensure that wildlife hasn’t made it into a home. When a good-hearted woman saw a baby deer dozing beneath someone else’s automobile tire, she made the decision to intervene.
A woman wanted to make sure the car’s driver was aware that a baby deer was sleeping beneath a tire, so she shared this Facebook post, which quickly gained popularity.
The responses were heartfelt and occasionally humorous. Joshua Kevin Nye’s comment is the most well-liked one thus far:
You know it was an elderly woman, but how? Why, if you saw her, didn’t she just write a message instead of telling you there was a blasted deer under the tire? I’m looking for clarification!
Another comedian expressed their hope that the motorist was literate. I suppose you can’t always get that conclusion from the way some people drive.
Cyntha Atkinson was among the kinder individuals who valued this woman’s action:
Thank you for leaving the note, kind woman.
Thank you, Cyntha. One has to admire the heart of those who, rather than choosing to carry on with their lives as usual, choose to make a difference.
Would you have continued living your life, left a note, or attempted to get the deer to come out from under the car?
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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