But I was angry at everyone who still had their mom, and at myself for not being able to save mine.
On Christmas Eve, I stood in Mom’s kitchen, staring at her old roasting pan.
I almost didn’t cook.
But her voice was there, steady and stubborn: “It’s for someone who needs it.”
So I made what I could. Just enough to bring a warm meal to someone who might be spending Christmas hungry.
Baked chicken. Instant mashed potatoes. Canned green beans. Boxed cornbread mix.
I packed it the way she always did.
I drove to the laundromat, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding me together.
The building looked the same. Flickering lights. Buzzing sign. Soapy smell.
But what I saw inside wasn’t the same at all.
He was there… Eli.
But not like I remembered.
No hoodie. No blanket. No plastic bag.
He wore a dark suit. Pressed. Clean. He stood tall, shoulders back.
In one hand, he held white lilies.
I froze.
He turned. Saw me. And his eyes softened instantly, filling with tears.
“You came,” he said, voice rough with emotion.
“Eli?” I whispered.
He nodded. “Yeah… it’s me.”
I held up the dinner bag like an idiot. “I brought food.”