They were blue. Not just cold—blue. Stiff, swollen fingers from being out in the freezing air far too long.
“Oh no,” I breathed. I yanked off my own gloves and slid them onto his tiny hands. They flopped at the tips but covered him.
“Mine now,” I said. “Warm up.”
His voice was barely a whisper. “My gloves got ripped… Mommy and Daddy said maybe next month they can get new ones. But it’s okay. Daddy’s trying.”
I swallowed hard. I knew that quiet, stubborn pain. My own family struggled when I was his age. Sometimes, all you can do is keep your head down and hope nobody notices.
“Well,” I said, “you tell your dad this: I know a guy who sells the warmest gloves and scarves in town. I’ll get you a pair today. Deal?”
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