He never asked for anything, yet my mother continued to show up. Slowly, pieces of his story surfaced: a difficult childhood, time spent in foster care, and the loss of his only sibling. My mother listened without judgment and never pushed for details.
Some years she added gloves or socks to the meal. Once, she offered to help him find housing, but he politely declined, uncomfortable with feeling indebted to anyone. She respected his choice and kept the tradition alive.
I didn’t fully understand her quiet persistence then, but I witnessed how small acts of care could build trust over time.
Years later, illness took my mother from me far sooner than expected. By the next Christmas, I was moving through life on autopilot, unsure how to carry on without her. On Christmas Eve, standing in her kitchen, I almost abandoned the tradition.
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