Two days later, Christmas morning arrived in a blur of wrapping paper and excited whispers. My girls hovered around the tree, negotiating who would open the first present, when the doorbell rang. My youngest whispered “Santa?” with reverence, while her sister immediately dismissed the idea. On the porch stood a courier holding a large box wrapped in glossy paper, tied with a red bow. My name was written on the tag. There was no return address. Inside the box was a letter that began with “Dear kind stranger,” written in careful handwriting. Laura explained that she and Oliver had gotten home safely, that her sister had cried when she saw them, that their family didn’t have much but could not let what I had done go unanswered. They had gone through their clothes, she wrote, choosing things they loved, things they wanted my girls to have. Inside the box were sweaters, dresses, pajamas, shoes—beautiful, barely worn, thoughtfully chosen. Sparkly boots that made my seven-year-old gasp. Costumes tucked at the bottom. A smaller note read, “From our girls to yours.” I knelt on the living room floor and hugged my children as they asked why I was crying, and I told them the truth in the simplest way I could: that sometimes people are very kind, and sometimes kindness comes back. My youngest nodded solemnly and said it was like a boomerang. Later that day, I posted anonymously online about stopping for a mother and baby and finding a box on my porch. An hour later, Laura messaged me. We exchanged quiet words of recognition, relief, gratitude.
