That woman is gone, and I don’t miss her. The woman who scoffed that some people just prefer to live on the streets learned, on a marble bathroom floor, that one of those people was her own father, wandering a city where she looked down on his exact reflection for twenty years.
You never know who the forgotten people are. That’s the thing I learned, and it changed my entire life. The man you step around on the sidewalk, the woman you avoid eye contact with, the person you decide “prefers” to live that way — you have no idea who they were, or who loved them, or who is out there, in a warm house, having stopped looking.
I do one thing now, with the fortune I once used to insulate myself from people like the man my father became.
I fund and personally work with programs that help the
