She rushed to the window, but Manon had already turned the corner and disappeared. Margaux held the money with shaking hands, tears blurring her vision. It wasn’t just the amount. It was the fact that someone who had grown up without a family had still found room to give.
For days after, the words St. Catherine’s Orphanage kept replaying in her mind. Margaux had walked past that stone building countless times, barely noticing it. Now it felt close, personal, like a door she had been passing without understanding what was behind it.
Her fingers still worked.
That night, she started knitting a small red sweater, bright as winter berries.
Two weeks later, it was finished. Then she made another. Then a scarf. Then a hat. She chose sturdy yarn, the kind that could survive playground falls and repeated washing. She pictured small shoulders, cold hands, windbitten ears. Each stitch felt like a quiet sentence: You matter. You’re not forgotten.
Within a month, she had a small pile—three sweaters, a scarf, a hat, mittens. Before dawn one morning, she folded them carefully, placed them in a strong bag, and walked to St. Catherine’s. She set the bag on the steps, knocked twice, and walked away quickly, her heart pounding like she’d committed a crime.
No note. No name. This wasn’t about credit. It was about warmth.
The next month, she did it again.
And again. Continue reading…
