I Let a Mother and Her Baby Stay in My House Two Days Before Christmas – on Christmas Morning, a Box Arrived with My Name on It
I set the letter down and looked into the box.
Clothes.
Neatly folded.
Soft sweaters in my girls’ sizes.
A pair of sparkly boots that made my seven-year-old gasp.
Dresses that looked almost new.
Jeans. Leggings. Pajamas.
Shoes in great condition.
A pair of sparkly boots that made my seven-year-old gasp.
“Mom,” she whispered. “These are amazing.”
My five-year-old held up a dress with stars on it.
There was a smaller note in different handwriting.
“Is this for me?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice cracking. “It’s for you.”
At the bottom of the box were a couple of costumes — a princess dress, a witch outfit, a superhero cape.
There was a smaller note in different handwriting.
“From our girls to yours,” it said, with a little heart.
That was when the tears really started.
“Because sometimes people are really, really kind.”
“Mommy?” my older daughter said softly. “Why are you crying?”
I knelt down and pulled them both into a hug.
“I’m crying,” I said, “because sometimes people are really, really kind. And sometimes, when you do something good, it comes back to you.”
“Like a boomerang,” my five-year-old said.
I laughed through my tears.
“Exactly like a boomerang.”
I’d been putting off buying new things.
Those clothes mattered more than I can explain.
I’d been putting off buying new things.
Stretching shoes another season.
Telling myself we’d make it work.
That box felt like the universe saying, “Here. Breathe.”
Later that day, after the girls had tried on half the box and were twirling in the living room, I sat at the kitchen table and opened Facebook.
“Sometimes the world is softer than it looks.”
I wrote a post.
No names.
No details that weren’t mine.
