As I trudge through the snow, my thoughts drift to my late husband, Jason. He would have loved a night like this, probably coaxing the kids into an impromptu snowball fight. But I’m almost home now, and home means five children who need me.
Suddenly, a shape on a nearby bench jolts me from my memories. It’s an elderly woman, huddled and shivering in the cold. My instincts warn me that I hardly have enough to provide for my own family, let alone a stranger. But I can’t just walk by.
“Ma’am?” I call out, edging closer. “Are you alright?”
She lifts her face, her eyes tired but oddly regal. Her thin smile trembles. “Just resting, dear,” she says in a subdued voice.
No one “rests” on a bench in the dead of winter unless they have nowhere to go. My late husband’s voice echoes in my head, reminding me that nobody should be alone on Christmas Eve. Without hesitation, I offer my hand. “My house isn’t much, but it’s warm, and there’s soup on the stove. Please, come with me.”
Her name is Margaret, and she hesitates, her pride warring with desperation. Eventually, she allows me to help her stand, and we set off on the slow walk to my small house. The windows glow in welcome, and my youngest, Tommy, throws open the door.
“Who’s that?” he asks, wide-eyed.
“This is Margaret,” I say gently. “She’ll be staying here tonight.”
My four other children crowd around, their curiosity shining in their faces. They fuss over Margaret, fetching our best blanket and proudly showing off our tiny tree with its handmade decorations. Soon, she is seated at our kitchen table, hands wrapped around a steaming bowl of soup, looking utterly grateful.
That night, after the children are in bed, Margaret and I sit across from each other, sipping tea. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice trembling with emotion. “I never expected this.”
“No one should be alone on Christmas,” I say softly.
A few days later, I’m cleaning the Graysons’ kitchen when I confide in my supervisor, Denise, about Margaret. She gives me a sympathetic smile.
“You did the right thing, honey,” she says, arranging flowers. “I’ll bring you some leftover ham from my Christmas dinner. You’ll take it home to those babies.”
I start to protest, but she cuts me off with a warm pat on my arm. “That’s what neighbors are for, Kate.”
Janine, one of my coworkers, overhears us. “You’ve got a whole soccer team of kids to feed already,” she snaps. “Why take in another mouth?”