By the end of a double shift, the hospital corridor lights always felt like they were vibrating. I’m thirty-three, a mother of two, and an expert in the art of the “slow crawl.” Ever since my husband disappeared—fading from texts, calls, to complete silence—it’s been just me and my girls, five and seven. For them, Christmas is magic: crooked letters to Santa, debates over cookie varieties. For me, it’s survival: budgeting, keeping the furnace alive, and praying the old house holds out.
Two days before Christmas, the roads were slick with black ice. My mind was a jumble of half-wrapped gifts and the location of our “Elf on the Shelf.” The girls were safe at my mother’s, sugar-crashing after a holiday movie marathon. Then I saw her.
A woman, barely moving against the wind, clutching a baby with an intensity that made my chest tighten. My instincts screamed: don’t stop. But another voice whispered: What if that were you? What if that were your baby?
I pulled over. Frost fogged the windows. Up close, she looked hollowed out by the cold. Her hair was messy, lips chapped, baby Oliver bundled thinly, one tiny hand red and stiff.
“I missed the last bus,” she said. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”
No phone, no family nearby, no plan. I looked at Oliver, then at my little house, and before fear could stop me, I opened the door. “Get in. You’re staying at my place tonight.”
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