He hesitated, then said quietly, “I used to have a little sister.”
The words hung in the air.
That year, she added gloves and thick socks to the meal. The next year, a small grocery gift card appeared in the bag. She claimed it came in the mail, but I knew better.
Once, she offered to help him find a room.
He flinched. “I can’t,” he said politely.
“Why not?”
“I’d rather freeze than owe anyone.”
She nodded and let it go. But she still brought dinner.
Life moved on. I graduated. I moved out. I built a life that looked stable enough from the outside. And then my mother got sick.
At first, it was easy to dismiss. She was tired. She lost weight. Her laugh didn’t quite sound like itself. She waved it off as stress or age.
Cancer took her in less than a year. There was no final Christmas, just a blur of hospital rooms, quiet car rides, and learning how to exist without the one person who had always been steady.
By December, I was functioning, not living.
On Christmas Eve, I stood alone in her kitchen, staring at the roasting pan she had used for years. For a moment, I considered skipping it altogether. But I could hear her voice in my head, firm and gentle.
“It’s for someone who needs it.”
So I cooked. Not the feast she used to make, but enough. Simple food. Warm food. I packed it carefully, just like she always had.
When I walked into the laundromat, everything looked the same. The flickering lights. The constant hum. But something was different. Continue reading…
