Patrick Mahomes secretly deposited $7,800 into a retired teacher’s account — all because he saw an old post from 2009 on Facebook…
The post, which had only 3 likes, was a photo of a classroom with the caption: “Proud to have taught Patrick Mahomes.” Patrick saw it, sent the money with the message: “I still remember the alphabet you taught me.”💻🍎📨

The Alphabet of Gratitude

In the quiet town of Tyler, Texas, where memories lingered like the scent of magnolias, a retired teacher named Mrs. Evelyn Thompson lived a simple life. At 72, her days were filled with tending her garden, reading novels, and scrolling through Facebook to stay connected with former students. Her small home was modest, her pension stretched thin, but her heart was rich with pride for the children she’d taught over decades. One of those children was Patrick Mahomes, now an NFL superstar, whose name brought a smile to her face every time she saw it on TV. Little did she know, a single Facebook post from 2009 would spark a gesture that would leave her, and her community, in tears.

Back in 2009, when Patrick was a high school freshman throwing spirals in Tyler’s parks, Mrs. Thompson had posted a photo on Facebook. It showed her third-grade classroom, a cozy space with colorful posters and a chalkboard scribbled with lessons. In the foreground, a young Patrick grinned, holding a spelling test with a gold star. The caption read, “Proud to have taught Patrick Mahomes.” The post, humble and heartfelt, garnered just three likes—two from fellow teachers, one from a parent. Over the years, it faded into the digital ether, buried under new posts and forgotten by most. But not by Patrick.

In the fall of 2025, during a rare quiet moment between NFL games, Patrick was scrolling through Facebook, catching up on hometown news. He stumbled across Mrs. Thompson’s old post, the photo of his eight-year-old self beaming back at him. The memory hit hard—her warm classroom, the way she’d patiently taught him the alphabet, her encouragement when he struggled with reading. “You’ve got a big brain, Patrick,” she’d say, tapping his head. “Use it to dream big.” That post, with its measly three likes, was a reminder of the woman who’d believed in him before he was a star.

Patrick learned Mrs. Thompson was struggling. A neighbor’s comment on a recent post mentioned her rising medical bills and a broken furnace she couldn’t afford to fix. Without telling anyone, Patrick contacted his financial advisor. “I want to send her some money,” he said. “Make it anonymous.” He chose $7,800—a nod to the year 2008, when he was in her class, and the $78 he’d once saved for a bike but spent on a class gift for her. Along with the deposit, he included a short note: “I still remember the alphabet you taught me.”

The morning the money appeared in Mrs. Thompson’s bank account, she thought it was a mistake. She called the bank, her voice shaky, convinced someone had wired funds to the wrong person. The banker assured her it was real, then read the note. Mrs. Thompson froze, her eyes welling up. “Patrick…” she whispered, clutching the phone. She hadn’t seen him since he was a teenager, but she’d followed his career, cheering every touchdown from her living room. The note’s words—simple, personal—brought back the boy who’d once shyly handed her a thank-you card at the end of third grade.

She kept the gesture quiet at first, overwhelmed. But word slipped out when she paid to fix her furnace and covered a neighbor’s medical bill with the leftover funds. At a local coffee shop, she shared the story with a friend, who posted about it on Facebook. The post exploded, shared across Tyler and beyond. Screenshots of the 2009 photo resurfaced, alongside messages of awe. “That’s our Patrick,” one comment read. “Never forgets where he came from.” The hashtag #AlphabetOfThanks trended on X, with people sharing stories of teachers who’d shaped their lives.

Tyler’s community was moved to tears. At a town potluck, Mrs. Thompson was invited to speak. She stood, a small figure with a big voice, holding a crumpled printout of Patrick’s note. “He didn’t just give me money,” she said, her voice breaking. “He gave me back my pride, my hope.” She told the crowd about the boy who’d struggled with his R’s, who’d practiced spelling “quarterback” on her chalkboard, who’d grown into a man who remembered a teacher’s kindness. The room, filled with neighbors and former students, wept openly, hugging one another as the weight of the gesture sank in.

Patrick, in Kansas City preparing for a game, hadn’t expected the story to spread. When reporters asked about it, he shrugged, his grin hiding a flicker of emotion. “Mrs. Thompson taught me more than the alphabet,” he said. “She taught me to care. This was just my way of saying thanks.” He didn’t mention the hours he’d spent tracking her down, the careful math behind the $7,800, or the joy he felt imagining her surprise. To him, it was a small act for a woman who’d given him so much.

The $7,800 changed Mrs. Thompson’s life. Her home was warm again, her bills manageable. But more than that, the gesture rekindled her sense of purpose. She started volunteering at the local library, teaching kids to read, her classroom spirit alive again. She wrote Patrick a letter, her neat cursive thanking him for reminding her that teaching was never just a job—it was a legacy. “You’re still my gold-star student,” she wrote.

The story inspired others. A local business matched Patrick’s gift, starting a fund for retired teachers in need. Students across Tyler wrote letters to their own teachers, thanking them for lessons big and small. On X, the #AlphabetOfThanks movement grew, with people donating to educators nationwide. A viral video showed Mrs. Thompson reading to kids at the library, her old classroom photo projected behind her. The caption: “One teacher, one student, one act of gratitude.”

Years later, at a Tyler school assembly, Patrick was a surprise guest. The gym roared as he walked in, but he waved off the cheers, pointing to Mrs. Thompson in the front row. “She’s the real MVP,” he said, handing her a framed copy of the 2009 photo. The kids chanted her name, and she laughed, wiping tears. The assembly ended with a new scholarship fund in her name, seeded by Patrick, to help kids pursue their dreams, just as she’d once helped him.

Mrs. Thompson passed at 80, her home filled with letters from students. At her memorial, the 2009 photo sat on display, beside Patrick’s note. The town gathered, sharing stories of her kindness, her chalk-dusted hands, her belief in every child. Patrick, there with his family, placed a gold star on her casket—a nod to the teacher who’d taught him the alphabet, and so much more.

In Tyler, her legacy lived on. The scholarship grew, the library’s reading room bore her name, and kids still learned the alphabet with the same patience she’d shown. And somewhere, Patrick Mahomes smiled, knowing a $7,800 deposit had bought something priceless: a teacher’s pride, a town’s heart, and a lesson in gratitude that echoed far beyond a Facebook post.