On Christmas Eve, I stood in Mom’s kitchen, staring at her old roasting pan.
I almost didn’t cook.
But her voice was there, steady and stubborn: “It’s for someone who needs it.”
So I made what I could. Just enough to bring a warm meal to someone who might be spending Christmas hungry.
Baked chicken. Instant mashed potatoes. Canned green beans. Boxed cornbread mix.
I packed it the way she always did.
I drove to the laundromat, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding me together.
The building looked the same. Flickering lights. Buzzing sign. Soapy smell.
But what I saw inside wasn’t the same at all.
He was there… Eli.
But not like I remembered.
No hoodie. No blanket. No plastic bag.
He wore a dark suit. Pressed. Clean. He stood tall, shoulders back.
In one hand, he held white lilies.
I froze.
He turned. Saw me. And his eyes softened instantly, filling with tears.
“You came,” he said, voice rough with emotion.
“Eli?” I whispered.
He nodded. “Yeah… it’s me.”
I held up the dinner bag like an idiot. “I brought food.”
He smiled, but it was shaky and sad. “She taught you well… your mother.”
I swallowed hard. “Why are you dressed like… that?”
Eli looked down at the lilies in his hand.
My heart raced. “She’s gone.”
“I know. I know she is.”
My heart thudded so loudly I could barely hear him say the next part.
“I tried to find you after the funeral, Abby,” he said. “Didn’t want to intrude. But I needed you to know something. Something your mom asked me not to tell you until I could prove I wasn’t just a guy in a corner anymore.”
I didn’t know what scared me more. Or what he knew or what he was about to say.
We sat down on the hard plastic chairs near the dryers. The air smelled of fresh laundry and old floors.
Eli placed the lilies beside him like they were breakable.
Then quietly, he said, “Do you remember getting lost at the county fair when you were little?”
A chill crawled up my spine.
I nodded slowly. “I thought I’d imagined that.”
“You didn’t.” He paused. “You ran up to me crying. I was just walking by the rides.”
I blinked. “A cop found me.”
“A cop took you from me,” he corrected. “But I found you first.”
He described the glitter butterfly I’d had painted on my cheek that day.