Christmas Eve was brutal.
The wind cut through my thin coat like knives as I left my cleaning job at the Graysons’ mansion, my fingers numb, my feet aching after twelve hours on my knees scrubbing floors that sparkled more than my entire life ever had. Snow fell in thick, silent sheets, swallowing the streetlights and muffling the world.
Since my husband passed three years ago, life had become a never-ending calculation: groceries versus heating, shoes versus rent. There was no safety net, no backup plan—just me, my mop, and my determination to keep my children warm and fed.
I was halfway down Maple Street when I saw her.
An elderly woman sat slumped against a bus stop bench, wrapped in blankets so thin they might as well have been tissue paper. Snow had settled in her hair and on her shoulders. Her hands trembled violently as she tried to cup them together for warmth. Continue reading…
