I tugged my threadbare coat tighter against the biting cold, trudging through deep snow. My feet ached from hours of scrubbing floors at the Grayson mansion, but I reminded myself home wasn’t far—and home meant five children who needed me. Thoughts of my late husband, Jason, crept in. He would have turned this snowy night into a joyful snowball fight. Even three years gone, his absence still felt raw.
A figure on a nearby bench caught my eye—an elderly woman, huddled and shivering. My instincts said I barely had enough for my family, but I couldn’t just walk past.
“Ma’am?” I called gently. “Are you alright?”
She looked up, tired but dignified. “Just resting,” she murmured. I knew no one “rests” in the dead of winter unless they have nowhere to go.
“My house isn’t much, but it’s warm, and there’s soup on the stove. Please, come with me,” I said.
Her name was Margaret, and though she hesitated, pride battling need, she finally accepted. My youngest, Tommy, threw the door open as we approached. “Who’s that?” he asked, wide-eyed.
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