An envelope goes round an office when someone's father dies, and what comes back is four hundred pounds and a card that everybody signed badly. The money is not the point and the money is entirely the point. It pays for a train, a suit, three days of not thinking about work.
That is money doing what it does best — turning into time, or distance, or relief, for somebody who needed it quickly.
Most of the good it does looks like that: invisible from outside, decisive from inside. Yours has done it for people who never told you.