« I missed the last bus, » she said in a fragile voice. « I have nowhere to go. »
No phone. No family nearby. No plan. I looked at her son, Oliver, then at my small, rickety house, a few streets away. Before fear had time to protest, I opened the door. « Get in. You’re staying with us tonight. »
The journey was made in silence, punctuated by her apologies. Laura was twenty-two years old, exhausted, carrying the weight of a world that made no room for her. Inside, the house smelled of linen and old wood, the Christmas tree twinkling softly like a warm welcome. Her gaze swept over the peeling paint and mismatched furniture as if she were entering a palace.
I gave them the guest room—the one with the wobbly dresser and my grandmother’s faded duvet. I warmed up some leftover pasta and garlic bread. Sitting on the bed, her coat still draped over her shoulders, she rocked Oliver to a rhythm born of despair. I offered to hold him so she could eat, but she shook her head, whispering into his hair, « I’m sorry, baby. Mommy’s trying. » A prayer I knew by heart.
That night, sleep was short. At one point, I glanced over and saw her leaning against the wall, Oliver asleep on her chest, his arms wrapped around him like a seatbelt.
In the morning, her sister had been found. At the station, Laura hugged me tightly, Oliver safe in the other. « If you hadn’t stopped, » she whispered, « I don’t know what would have happened. » Then she disappeared into the crowd.
Christmas morning was utter chaos: my daughters were arguing over who would open the first present. Amid their laughter, the doorbell rang. A delivery man was carrying a large box, wrapped in glossy paper and tied with a huge red ribbon. My name was neatly written on the label. No return address.
Inside, a letter: « Dear and kind stranger. »
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