Then cancer took her too fast, and Christmas arrived without her voice, her laughter, or the smell of her cooking filling the apartment. I almost didn’t go that night. But I could practically hear her saying, “It’s for someone who needs it.” So I made what I could, packed it the way she always did, and drove to the laundromat with shaking hands.
When I walked in, I spotted Eli… but something was wrong. He wasn’t curled up in the corner. He stood tall in a clean dark suit, holding a bouquet of white lilies, like he’d come for a funeral.
He looked at me, tears in his eyes, and said my name like he’d been waiting for this moment. Then, in a quiet voice, he told me the secret my mom had carried for years: she hadn’t just been feeding him—she’d been helping him rebuild his life. She had found him after he once helped me when I was little, never forgot his face, and stayed consistent when the world hadn’t. She connected him to real support, encouraged him to keep going, and asked only one thing: if he ever got back on his feet, he had to wear a suit—so she’d know he was okay.
Eli handed me an envelope my mom had left behind, proof that her love had reached further than I ever realized. That Christmas, I didn’t just keep her tradition alive—I finally understood it.