The hallway was filled with children—two dozen of them, grinning, fidgeting, bouncing on their toes. They wore sweaters and scarves and hats Margaux recognized instantly: the red one, the blue striped one, the green mittens with snowflakes. Her hands had made those. Her quiet nights had made those.
“Surprise!” the children shouted together.
“Thank you, Miss Margaux!”
“I love my sweater!”
“Will you teach me to knit?”
“Can we come again?”
Margaux sank to her knees, overwhelmed, her heart feeling too full for her chest.
Manon made her way through the crowd and took Margaux’s hands. “I work at St. Catherine’s now,” she said. “I’m a social worker. I wanted to give back to the place that raised me.” Her voice wavered. “Three months ago, I found one of your old bags behind a storage shelf. There was a receipt inside with your name on it.”
Margaux covered her mouth. “I never wanted anyone to know.”
“That’s why it matters,” Manon whispered. “You kept showing up when nobody was watching. You didn’t do it for praise. You did it because you cared.”
A little girl in a pink sweater tugged Margaux’s sleeve and asked, “Are you lonely like us?”
The question cracked her open and stitched her back together in the same breath.
Margaux brushed the child’s hair away from her face. “I was,” she admitted. “But I’m not anymore.”
