Every Christmas Eve, my mother followed a tradition that never appeared in family photos or holiday cards. She would cook a special dinner, filling our small apartment with the scent of roasted meat, buttered potatoes, and fresh cornbread. But one plate was always wrapped carefully in foil and placed in a grocery bag.
When I was young, I finally asked who it was for. She simply said it was for someone who needed it. That someone was Eli, a quiet young man who spent his nights in the corner of our local laundromat.
My mother never spoke down to him or asked questions. She just knelt beside him each year, handed him the meal, and offered a gentle smile. Over time, I learned that her kindness was not about charity—it was about seeing people as human beings.
As I grew older, Eli became a familiar part of our Christmas routine.
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