I Let a Mother and Her Baby Stay in My House Two Days Before Christmas – on Christmas Morning, a Box Arrived with My Name on It
I carried a cold woman and her infant home with me two days before Christmas, breaking every “don’t talk to strangers” guideline I had ever been taught.
I didn’t know it would transform our life; I just assumed I was providing them with a cozy spot to spend the night.
Two days prior to Christmas, I let a woman and her infant remain at my house, and on Christmas morning, a box bearing my name appeared.
Three years ago, their father departed.
I am a 33-year-old mother of two little kids, ages five and seven.
They continue to think of Santa as a full-time job.
They dispute over which cookie he will choose and create crooked letters with backwards S’s.
Three years ago, their father departed.
A hospital is where I work.
The texts, calls, and visits gradually stopped until I noticed one day that he hadn’t inquired about them for weeks.
It’s just the three of us now.
A hospital is where I work.
Budgeting for food is like defusing a bomb.
I know which day bread is on sale, which store sells the cheapest milk, and how to get three dinners out of a packet of ground beef.
I now know how to reset breakers, clear out clogged drains, and charm our old heater.
The house is our only true safety net.
I feel capable on certain days.
On certain days, I feel like I’ll just sit on the kitchen floor and stare if something more goes wrong.
The house is our only true safety net.
My grandparents used to own it.
The siding is depressing, it’s small, and it creaks, yet it pays off.
We’re still afloat because we don’t have a mortgage.
There was that thin film of ice on the roadways, which is both beautiful and frightening.
I was going home after a late shift two days prior to Christmas.
Time seemed hazy and your eyes burned from sheer exhaustion.
It was already black in the sky.
There was that thin film of ice on the roadways, which is both beautiful and frightening.
As the radio played gentle Christmas tunes, my mind was running through a list of things I needed to do.
Presents should be wrapped.
Remember to relocate the foolish elf.
Keep the stocking stuffers hidden.
Remember to relocate the foolish elf.
My mom’s was where my girls were.
They had consumed too many Christmas movies, sugar cookies, and hot chocolate.
I imagined them unconscious in flannel pajamas, their mouths wide and their cheeks glowing.
Warm. secure.
Then I noticed her.
I recall thinking, “I still have to wrap everything when I get home,” and felt strangely thankful.
Then I noticed her.
Half beneath the small plastic shelter, she stood at the bus stop.
A mother clutching a baby to her chest.
She wasn’t checking her phone or pacing.
She was simply motionless.
The wind was fierce.
frozen.
The wind was fierce.
The sort that cuts through all the layers.
The infant had crimson cheeks and was wrapped in a thin blanket.
One small hand protruded, its fingers stiff and curled.
I felt sick to my stomach.
Then all of my mental bells went off at once.
I passed in my car.
Perhaps five seconds.
Then all of my mental bells went off at once.
The whole “don’t pick up strangers” debate.
Every “you can’t take risks because you have kids” mindset.
And something quieter behind it.
What if it were my child?
What if I were that person?
What if it were my child?
I reduced my speed.
pulled over.
I rolled down the passenger window with trembling hands.
“Hey!” I called. “You okay?”
She seems devastated up close.
Startled, she took a step forward.
She seems devastated up close.
Chapped lips, dark circles under the eyes, and hair pulled into a forlorn bun.
She swallowed, “I…” “I missed the last bus.”
She gave the infant a closer embrace.
“I don’t have anywhere to go tonight.”
“Do you have anyone nearby?”
She didn’t cry.
She stated it as if she had expended all of her energy accepting it.
I said, “Do you have anyone nearby?” “Family? Friends?”
“My sister,” she addressed him. “But she lives far away.”
Embarrassed, she looked away.
“My phone died. I thought there was one more bus. I got the times wrong.”
This infant was chilly outside.
The shelter was buffeted by the wind.
I stared at the child’s flushed face, the chilly sidewalk, and the deserted street.
My mom had my girls in a cozy bed.
This infant was chilly outside.
I heard myself respond, “Okay. Get in. You can stay at my place tonight,” before my panic could get stronger.
Her gaze expanded.
“What’s his name?”
“What? No, I… I can’t. You don’t even know me.”
“True,” I replied. “But I know it’s freezing. And you’re holding a baby. Please. Get in.”
A heartbeat passed while she paused.
Then, still holding the infant as a shield, she opened the door and got inside.
He gave a feeble little whimper as the warm air touched him.
I pulled away from the curb and asked, “What’s his name?”
“He’s two months.”
When she said, “Oliver,” her entire face softened. “He’s two months.”
She gently moved him.
“I’m Laura, by the way.”
I said, “I’m a very tired mom,” “That’s close enough to a name.”
She gave a little snort.
She apologized repeatedly during the drive.
“You’re not a burden.”
“I really apologize.
I promise I’m not insane.
Furthermore, “I’ll leave first thing in the morning. You don’t have to feed me.”
“You’re okay,” I repeated. “You’re not a burden. I chose this, remember?”
We arrived at my driveway.
The peeling paint appeared almost homey in the porch light.
“You live here?”
She said, “You live here?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “It was my grandparents’.”
She told me, “It’s nice,” and I could tell she meant it.
The house smelled of aged wood and washing detergent inside.
The living room was filled with the soothing blinking of Christmas lights from the tree.
I said, “Sorry about the mess,” out of habit.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s beautiful,” she remarked.
I showed her the small guest room.
A twin bed.
fading quilt.
wobbly dresser.
But the bedding were clean.
“I don’t want to take your stuff.”
I said, “I’ll get you some towels.” “Bathroom’s right across the hall. Do you want food?”
“You’ve done enough,” she remarked with sparkling eyes. “I don’t want to take your stuff.”
“You’re not taking,” I replied. “I’m offering. Let me offer.”
Her shoulders drooped slightly.
“Okay,” she muttered.
I warmed up some leftover pasta and garlic toast in the kitchen.
“I can hold him while you eat.”
To feel less bad, I tossed some baby carrots onto the platter.
She was rocking Oliver while sitting on the side of the bed, still wearing her coat, when I returned.
“I can hold him while you eat,” I said.
Her eyes widened in fear.
“Oh—no, no, I’ve got him. I’ll eat after.”
After picking at the food for perhaps three mouthful, she returned her attention to him.
It went straight to the core of me.
She whispered into his hair, and I heard it.
“I’m sorry, baby. Mommy’s trying. I’m so sorry.”
It went straight to the core of me.
I’ve thought those identical things, but I’ve never uttered them aloud to my children.
Several times.
I didn’t get much sleep that night.
On her chest, Oliver was fast sleeping.
I sat up at every creak of the house.
You did a nice thing, one part of my brain told me.
Another section says, “Genius, you brought a stranger into your home.”
Once, I got up to “check the thermostat” and had a quick look at the guest room.
Laura was propped against the wall, half-lying, half-sitting.
On her chest, Oliver was fast sleeping.
The door to the guest room was open.
She encircled him with her arms like a seat belt.
I awoke in the morning to the sound of soft movement.
I entered the hallway.
The door to the guest room was open.
In there, Laura was making the bed.
She had used a blanket, and it was properly folded.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
A tidy stack of towels.
Once more, Oliver was snuggled up against her.
When I said, “You didn’t have to do that,”
She gave a start, then gave a tense smile.
She stated, “I didn’t want to leave a mess,” “You’ve done so much already.”
“Do you need a ride to your sister’s?” I replied.
“Come on. Let’s get you there.”
Her words, “If it’s not too much,” “I can meet her near the station once I charge my phone.”
I said, “It’s not too much,” “Come on. Let’s get you there.”
She turned at the front entrance and gave me a clumsy hug while keeping Oliver in one arm.
“Thank you,” she muttered. “If you hadn’t stopped… I don’t know what would’ve happened.”
I gave her a hug in return.
Saying, “I’m glad I did,”
“Winner goes first. Those are the rules.”
I closed the door and assumed that was the end of it after seeing her go down the path, the snow crunching beneath her shoes.
Two days later.
Christmas morning.
At last, the girls were at home.
They were practically bouncing around the tree in their jammies, hair all over the place.
My five-year-old pleaded, “Can we open them now? Pleeease?”
Everybody froze.
Saying “rock-paper-scissors,” “Winner goes first. Those are the rules.”
They engaged in play.
After winning, the child performed a victory dance that resembled interpretive karate.
The doorbell rang as she reached for the first gift.
Everybody froze.
“Santa?” she said in a whisper.
“Santa doesn’t ring doorbells.”
My child of seven sneered.
“Santa doesn’t ring doorbells,” she remarked. “Use your brain.”
“Maybe he forgot something,” the child remarked.
I chuckled.
“I’ll get it.”
A courier with a big parcel wrapped in shiny Christmas paper stood on the porch, his cheeks flushed from the cold.
Like inquisitive kittens, the girls hovered in the doorway.
large red bow.
He responded, “Delivery for you,” and he tipped it so I could see the label.
It had my name in fine lettering on it.
There was no sender mentioned.
I thanked him, signed, and took the package into the kitchen.
Like inquisitive kittens, the girls hovered in the doorway.
“I’m not sure.”
My younger one said, “Is it for us?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “Let me look first.”
My heart was racing, but I had no idea why.
I removed the wrapping paper.
There was a standard cardboard box underneath.
I flipped the flaps open.
I was unaware that my hands were trembling.
There was a folded letter on top.
I was struck hard by the opening line.
“Dear kind stranger.”
My oldest daughter said, “Mommy?” “Why are you making that face?”
I was unaware that my hands were trembling.
After swallowing, I began to read.
Laura sent it.
She arrived home without incident.
She wrote that someone at the station allowed her to charge her phone after I dropped her off.
When her sister arrived, she was crying, screaming, and hugging her all at once.
She arrived home without incident.
She shared everything with her family.
The bus stop.
the chill.
Her family didn’t have much money, she wrote.
My home.
The room for guests.
The meal.
Her family didn’t have much money, she wrote.
Her parents had a set salary.
Her sister had two jobs.
They were unable to reimburse me in any significant manner.
They were unable to reimburse me in any significant manner.
“But you gave us warmth and safety when you didn’t have to,” she stated in her letter.
“If you hadn’t stopped, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me and Oliver.”
She mentioned that her sister had daughters who were teenagers.
They wanted to assist after learning what had occurred.
It read, “They went through their clothes,” she wrote.
“They picked things they loved. They said they wanted your girls to feel special.”
My vision became hazy.
I put down the letter and peered inside the package.
clothing.
folded neatly.
My girls’ sizes of soft sweaters.
My seven-year-old gasped when she saw the glittering boots.
dresses that were practically brand-new.
Jeans. Leggings. Sleepwear.
Excellent condition shoes.
My seven-year-old gasped when she saw the glittering boots.
“Mom,” she muttered. “These are amazing.”
My five-year-old displayed a star-studded outfit.
A smaller message with a different handwriting was present.
She said, “Is this for me?”
“Yeah,” I replied, my voice breaking. “It’s for you.”
A superhero cape, a witch suit, and a princess dress were among the outfits at the bottom of the box.
A smaller message with a different handwriting was present.
It said, “From our girls to yours,” with a hint of emotion.
The tears really started at that point.
“Because sometimes people are really, really kind.”
My oldest daughter whispered, “Mommy?” “Why are you crying?”
I got on my knees and gathered them both in an embrace.
“I’m crying,” I replied, “because sometimes people are really, really kind. And sometimes, when you do something good, it comes back to you.”
“Like a boomerang,” commented my five-year-old.
Through my tears, I chuckled.
“Exactly like a boomerang.”
I had been delaying purchasing new items.
I have no words to describe how important those clothes were.
I had been delaying purchasing new items.
Another season of stretching sneakers.
We’ll make it work, I told myself.
The cosmos seemed to say, “Here. Breathe.” in that box.
Later that day, I sat at the kitchen table and opened Facebook while the ladies were spinning around in the living room after trying on half of the box.
“Sometimes the world is softer than it looks.”
I penned a post.
No names.
Nothing that wasn’t mine.
Just: Two days prior to Christmas, I spotted a mother and a baby at a bus stop.
I took them back to my house.
A letter and a box of clothes arrived on my porch this morning.
The final words I used were, “Sometimes the world is softer than it looks.”
“Is that post about me?”
I received a communication request an hour later.
Laura sent it.
She wrote, “Is that post about me?”
My heart leaped.
I said, “Yeah. I kept it anonymous. I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s more than okay,” she replied.
Oliver was in good health, she informed me.
“I’ve been thinking about you since that night. I didn’t know how to say thank you again without being weird.”
We exchanged messages for some time.
Oliver was in good health, she informed me.
Despite the limited funds, her family had insisted on sending the box.
My children’s favorite clothing had caused her nieces to quarrel.
I emailed her a photo of my daughters twirling around in their new attire, their faces beaming and their hair flying.
We now occasionally speak.
Writing, “They look so happy,”
“They are,” I said. “You helped with that.”
We became friends with one another.
We now occasionally speak.
images of children.
“Good luck” messages.
Not merely due to the box.
“I’m tired too” admissions.
Not due to the attire.
Not merely due to the box.
But because two mothers happened to meet paths one chilly night before Christmas.
One need assistance.
Despite being afraid, one stopped.
We both didn’t forget.
