He’d sit up slowly, like he wasn’t sure this was real. He always said the same thing.
And my mom, with that same soft smile, always replied, “I know. But I want to.”
I didn’t understand it back then. I was a teenager who thought kindness had to come with a price tag or a punchline.
One evening, I whispered as we walked back to the car, “Mom, what if he’s dangerous?”
She didn’t even flinch. Just stared straight ahead, both hands on the wheel.
Over the years, little bits of Eli’s life came out. Never all at once.
He never offered it willingly, but my mom never stopped showing up either. That built trust.
One Christmas, when I was 16, he was sitting upright instead of asleep, looking like he hadn’t closed his eyes in days.
Mom handed him the bag. “You okay, Eli?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, almost like it slipped out before he could stop it, he said, “I used to have a little sister.”
Something in his voice made my stomach twist.
“She was the only family I had. We aged out of foster care together. Then a car crash took her,” Eli revealed.
He didn’t say much else. He didn’t need to.