It wasn’t about the flag.

It was about what it meant to me. I’d hung it out front the day I moved in—not to make a statement, just to feel a little more like home. New street, new neighbors, new everything. I was the outsider. Everyone knew it. Nobody said it, but you can feel that kind of thing.

I didn’t even mention it to anyone.

But the next morning, I found a piece of notebook paper under my doormat. Torn edges. Handwritten, kind of messy. It said:

“I SAW KIDS STEAL YOUR U.S. FLAG.
I KNOW YOU ARE THE ONLY WHITE GUY IN THIS AREA.
WE AREN’T ALL THE SAME.
BUY A NEW FLAG WITH THIS.
—NEIGHBORS”

And taped to the note?

A crisp twenty.

I sat on the stoop for a long time with that paper in my hands, not even sure what to feel. Grateful. Humbled. Seen.

But when I finally walked to the corner store to get a replacement flag, the cashier handed me something with the receipt—folded small, no name on it.

Another note.

This one read:
“Don’t trust too quick. Not everyone is good.”