One evening just after dusk, my eight-months-pregnant neighbor knocked on our door, crying and barely able to stand. Her arm was badly bruised, and fear radiated from her. We had never spoken before, but seeing her in that state made my heart sink.

Before I could respond, my mother-in-law snapped that our house wasn’t a shelter and told her to leave. Ashamed and angry, I ignored her. All I could see was a woman who needed help.

I stepped outside, held her as she trembled, and learned her name was Maya. She said her partner had taken her purse and she only needed money to reach a pharmacy. Without hesitation, I gave her £200 I’d set aside for groceries.

She squeezed my hand, eyes wide with disbelief, then hurried toward the bus stop. She never said thank you. I lay awake that night wondering if I’d helped—or made things worse.

The next week was tense and quiet. My husband was away, my mother-in-law cold, and Maya’s house dark. I worried constantly about what might have happened to her.

Days later, in the city center, I spotted Maya laughing outside a luxury hotel. She looked confident—and not pregnant. I watched in shock as she removed a fake belly. Embarrassment washed over me.

A man approached and explained Maya was an undercover investigator testing how communities respond to domestic violence. She’d knocked on twenty doors. Mine was the only one that opened.

They returned my £200 and gave me £5,000 to donate to a women’s shelter. The experience changed me. Kindness isn’t wasted, even when appearances deceive. It’s better to risk being wrong while doing good than to turn away.