I Always Gave a Few Dollars to a Homeless Man on My Way to Work — on Christmas Eve, He Said, ‘Don’t Go Home Today…There’s Something You Don’t Know!’

“I know,” I said. “But I won’t sleep if I don’t.”

I dialed.

A tired but kind woman answered.

I told her my name.

Told her Evan had died.

She was quiet for a second.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “This is a lot to process.”

She explained.

The boy was 10.

His mother had passed.

They’d gone to my house looking for Evan, hoping for family.

“Would you like to be in contact at all?” she asked.

“No decisions now. Just… open or closed.”

I looked at the photo.

At Evan’s letter.

At Robert, sitting still beside me.

“I don’t know what I can be,” I said. “But I’m not pretending he doesn’t exist.

So… open.”

She exhaled softly.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll be in touch after Christmas.”

When I hung up, my hand was shaking.

Robert watched me.

“What now?” he asked.

I slid the letters, the photo, and Evan’s note into my bag.

“Now I go home,” I said. “And when that social worker knocks, I answer.”

He let out a long breath, like he’d been holding it for years.

“Then I kept my promise,” he said.

I looked at him.

“Were you ever actually homeless?” I asked.

He gave a crooked little smile.

“I’ve had rough years,” he said.

“But your husband didn’t want me showing up in a suit. People ignore an old guy on a bench. Makes it easy to keep an eye on someone.”

“You’ve been watching me this whole time,” I said.

“Someone had to,” he said.

“He couldn’t.”

I stood up, legs shaky but steady.

Continue reading…