Every year, while other families posted matching pajamas and picture-perfect dinners, my mom and I had a tradition no one ever understood. On Christmas Eve, she’d cook an extra plate—always warm, always carefully wrapped—and carry it to a quiet corner of our local laundromat. She never made a speech or asked for credit. She would only say, “Someone needs it.”
This year, Mom was gone, and I went alone, determined to keep her tradition alive… until I stepped inside and realized the man I remembered wasn’t the man standing there now.
For as long as I could remember, Eli stayed at the laundromat. Same worn hoodie, same tired eyes, and the same small “thank you,” whispered like he didn’t believe kindness existed. My mom never loomed over him or treated him like charity—she just offered dinner as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Over the years, she added small comforts: gloves, socks, a gift card tucked inside the bag. Once, she even offered to help him find a room, but he refused, insisting he’d rather struggle than owe anyone. My mom never pushed. She just smiled and reminded him, “Dinner still stands.”
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