Caitlin’s Mom (Anne Neville) Character Analysis

Reading that letter brought tears to my eyes. He was so proud. He had never asked me for help. Asking my parents for help was probably one of the hardest things for him to have to do. He did not want to burden me. He knew that I would get sick worrying about him in such need. But there it was, written on paper, a huge SOS. My parents knew I had a pen pal in Zimbabwe, but they did not know how close we had become. That evening, I decided to tell them everything. It was the only way I could truly help Martin.

And then, like magic, a letter arrived.

This one, however, had been ripped and taped back up in a crude way. Someone had written in capital letters INSPECTED FOR CONTRABAND across Caitlin’s beautiful penmanship. It felt like a violation.

Damon was different from the guys I dated in middle school. He was more mature, and sensitive. I understood why when I met his dad. He had MS and was in a wheelchair as a result. That meant he needed full-time care to do anything from eat to go to the bathroom. Damon’s mom took care of his dad, and basically let her kids fend for themselves.

The day after my birthday, my mom took me out of school to go get my learner’s permit. Damon met me at the DMV—he had skipped school, but lied to my mom when she asked him why he had the day off.

Hours later, a nurse confirmed it was malaria—thankfully not cerebral. She needed IV fluids immediately. She was so dehydrated that she was at risk of dying without them. But the hospital couldn’t afford to supply any medicine. Instead, the nurse told us what we needed, and then we had to secure it.

“There is a man outside wearing a blue shirt,” she said. “He sells IVs.”

I started connecting all the pieces: My dad worked for the government; he was at a military base; the Pentagon had been hit. I jumped to the impossible notion: My dad may be dead. I shook my head. That was preposterous. But then I remembered the fire I saw in the sky on the TV earlier that morning. That seemed impossible too.

I was surprised to receive a letter from Caitlin’s mom. In it she offered to help me navigate the complicated American college admission process. I was so happy to hear this. It was further proof that Caitlin was not the only angel in this family.

Anne asked me if I had ever heard of the SATs. I had, in fact, because my good friend Wallace had taken them earlier that year. He, too, was planning to go to school in the States that September.

Today was different.

“We’d better start thinking about how to break it to him,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

The first line of the email was like rocket fuel:

We are pleased to offer you a full scholarship beginning with the 2003-2004 academic year.

It propelled me from my seat. The breath I’d been holding for the past few months came barreling out of my mouth as I shouted, “Yesssssss!”

I have no idea what any of these young people will do with the emotions our story stirred in each of them—but I am excited by the possibilities. It’s why I wanted to write this book.

Kindness is contagious. It changes lives. It changed mine. What will it do for you?

Reading that letter brought tears to my eyes. He was so proud. He had never asked me for help. Asking my parents for help was probably one of the hardest things for him to have to do. He did not want to burden me. He knew that I would get sick worrying about him in such need. But there it was, written on paper, a huge SOS. My parents knew I had a pen pal in Zimbabwe, but they did not know how close we had become. That evening, I decided to tell them everything. It was the only way I could truly help Martin.

And then, like magic, a letter arrived.

This one, however, had been ripped and taped back up in a crude way. Someone had written in capital letters INSPECTED FOR CONTRABAND across Caitlin’s beautiful penmanship. It felt like a violation.

Damon was different from the guys I dated in middle school. He was more mature, and sensitive. I understood why when I met his dad. He had MS and was in a wheelchair as a result. That meant he needed full-time care to do anything from eat to go to the bathroom. Damon’s mom took care of his dad, and basically let her kids fend for themselves.

The day after my birthday, my mom took me out of school to go get my learner’s permit. Damon met me at the DMV—he had skipped school, but lied to my mom when she asked him why he had the day off.

Hours later, a nurse confirmed it was malaria—thankfully not cerebral. She needed IV fluids immediately. She was so dehydrated that she was at risk of dying without them. But the hospital couldn’t afford to supply any medicine. Instead, the nurse told us what we needed, and then we had to secure it.

“There is a man outside wearing a blue shirt,” she said. “He sells IVs.”

I started connecting all the pieces: My dad worked for the government; he was at a military base; the Pentagon had been hit. I jumped to the impossible notion: My dad may be dead. I shook my head. That was preposterous. But then I remembered the fire I saw in the sky on the TV earlier that morning. That seemed impossible too.

I was surprised to receive a letter from Caitlin’s mom. In it she offered to help me navigate the complicated American college admission process. I was so happy to hear this. It was further proof that Caitlin was not the only angel in this family.

Anne asked me if I had ever heard of the SATs. I had, in fact, because my good friend Wallace had taken them earlier that year. He, too, was planning to go to school in the States that September.

Today was different.

“We’d better start thinking about how to break it to him,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

The first line of the email was like rocket fuel:

We are pleased to offer you a full scholarship beginning with the 2003-2004 academic year.

It propelled me from my seat. The breath I’d been holding for the past few months came barreling out of my mouth as I shouted, “Yesssssss!”

I have no idea what any of these young people will do with the emotions our story stirred in each of them—but I am excited by the possibilities. It’s why I wanted to write this book.

Kindness is contagious. It changes lives. It changed mine. What will it do for you?