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.”
By December, I was surviving.
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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.
But what I saw inside wasn’t the same at all.
